31 October 2009

Too Wit


The things that hatch through narrow cracks
are not the enemy we must believe; to see
them in their plenitude as opportunists who
have little choice, soloists out flying all alone
are males, they’ll die for pheromones which
promise paradise. Cannot find a solid source
for their largesse, suspect it doesn’t have a
cause for brains and yet they’d die for sex?

Mealy moths again are trying my propriety
I must admit I do not know what motivates
the little twits; all processed grain is double
sealed and yet they breed. I freeze the items
where their signature is clear, feed it to the
ravenous and stay too wit, ashamedly naive
© 22 September 2009, I. D. Carswell