|
Mating Season
The ground moves
with clumps of lovebugs,
balls of black insects—
flies actually—
in the bloomed-out, gone-awry
forsythia, red pin-points
of each body
like a banquet of valentines.
They are put here only to mate—
still we are wary
to step on unstill grass
and their end-on-end frenzy.
The left-out hose pipe, a fissure
in the roil that has been
dog-gnawed, reminds us
of what was ours.
The cats levitate the yard
like holy beasts
of prey. We let loose
the dog, watch,
as with one quick motion,
she eats love in half.
|
