In
the swollen heat of August
hornets
rattle their paper hearts
against
window panes,
denying
the refusal of the
sky
to accept them.
Their
desire burns them up,
finally
curling into a knot.
An
electric fan pushes the thick
air
into the semblance of a breeze.
There
is comfort in the white noise
of
the oscillations but no
deception
of coolness.
The
hornets have not failed
at
being hornets,
For
all my cleverness I am still
trapped
alone in these dank sheets
.
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