The Dance of a Wasp

The Dance of a Wasp
by Jim Davis
around the body of another wasp.
He cried hard then slept.
When he woke there was one wasp left,
the dead one. Less sad without.
Ribbons of blood, then the band plays.
Days on a yellow couch. The march forgotten.
The tree ribs will blossom with prompting.
Summer. The hard wings of beetles
tapping at the lamp. Getting fat
for good reason. A schoolboy in a church collar
kicks real-estate signs, karate chops low branches.
At lunch, a light brush of oil to cauterize the bun.
Tar coating the oval where a tree branch once was
something so essential to this life: denial,
optimism, transcendence. Wishes on every eyelash,
on every eleven-eleven, to be happy again.
The only certainty the buzzing expectation
that at one point, he was.

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