The last wasps inside the temple
—oh, only two or three are left—
un-fold their wings and prepare to die.
The temple grows in the silence.
A skin of frost forms
across raked sand, across
the carefully placed stones.
The garden browns.
A spider inside and outside the temple:
A last wasp twists in its web and dies.
We remain sitting, the last to celebrate
our innocence in silence,
the first to approach winter
as a parchment of bones.
The last wasps inside the temple —oh, only two or three are left— un-fold their wings and prepare to die. The temple grows in the silence. A skin of frost forms across raked sand, across the carefully placed stones. The garden browns. A spider inside and outside the temple: A last wasp twists in its…
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