Invasions
Last year
It was moths,
Big fluttering things,
That squeezed
Themselves
Under doors,
Inside closed
Windows,
Into the shower,
Into the car,
Between inaccessible
Crevices,
To die
And turn to
Grey-brown dust.
This year its
Grasshoppers.
They sit
In the sun
On all surfaces,
Dumbfounded
By the glare,
Then jump away
In unpredictable
Directions.
At night
They rise in
Clouds
On the
Thermal inversion,
Appear on
Satellite images,
And ride
There until
Morning,
Then descend
Bewildered,
Pointless,
Until they, too
Die
And turn to
Grey-brown dust.
Last year
It was moths,
Big fluttering things,
That squeezed
Themselves
Under doors,
Inside closed
Windows,
Into the shower,
Into the car,
Between inaccessible
Crevices,
To die
And turn to
Grey-brown dust.
This year its
Grasshoppers.
They sit
In the sun
On all surfaces,
Dumbfounded
By the glare,
Then jump away
In unpredictable
Directions.
At night
They rise in
Clouds
On the
Thermal inversion,
Appear on
Satellite images,
And ride
There until
Morning,
Then descend
Bewildered,
Pointless,
Until they, too
Die
And turn to
Grey-brown dust.
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