Cuckoo Wasps

and as the winged
insects pour forth from hinged
skull, a stretch no
more than reason - the timbalous
rudiments of flight on frisking
wings - the staples of summered
dusk - late sun shattering
on nicks of stained
glass - of infiltration - a
stolen clasp of mind - a
decanted vacuum where
once built an inside city
- fed upon by bandit
brilliance and husked by
the great abatement

there appears in the sky
the first swallow
of many.

This is one of those flank­ing poems, like a sheep­dog, spi­ral­ing in on a point that, in this case, remains shroud­ed in the metaphor. Basi­cal­ly the idea is that ideas are all most­ly stolen. They’re pret­ty food, and when you all of yours get eat­en by some­thing, you can always eat some­one else’s. Still not exact­ly right, but over-explain­ing does­n’t do much to sate the appetite.