poetry

i.

I think of them
as micro-chips of God,
tracking, sucking, tasting, posting

information.

​

ii.

Ticks and flies bedeck the bushbucks' necks
and faces, fleas bite them, their tails flick, and sometimes

they gallop, as if to take off, Pegasus-like,
leaving the bugs
behind.

​

iii.

Three times you step, almost, on a scorpion.
His lessons: self-inflicted death, pain, resurrection

– source of new reflections
in your book.

​

iv.

A wingèd hopper noshes all the foliage on the tiny bonsai maple.
I hate him, pincer his hindlegs with my fingers, toss him into the wild bush,

half-hoping he'll be hurt, but he sails off like a bird,
whirring wings like eggbeaters.
I don't like, but still admire, his glee.

​

v.

I see a small, white moth lie, very still, on the carpet,
and I let him
be.