Cuckoo Wasps

and as the winged
insects pour forth from hinged
skull, a stretch no
more than reason - the timbalous
rudiments of flight on frisking
wings - the staples of summered
dusk - late sun shattering
on nicks of stained
glass - of infiltration - a
stolen clasp of mind - a
decanted vacuum where
once built an inside city
- fed upon by bandit
brilliance and husked by
the great abatement

there appears in the sky
the first swallow
of many.

This is one of those flanking poems, like a sheepdog, spiraling in on a point that, in this case, remains shrouded in the metaphor. Basically the idea is that ideas are all mostly stolen. They’re pretty food, and when you all of yours get eaten by something, you can always eat someone else’s. Still not exactly right, but over-explaining doesn’t do much to sate the appetite.

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