Their Art
by Sean Lause

Wasps are spinning their nest
in what used to be my back window.
Their intricate legs work,
my mind trembles.

They enter and leave their perfect caves,
the sun touching them blue or bottle-green.
They hold their wings down tight,
bullets that wound the air.

Have they journeyed here from outer space
to gauge my knowledge of earth?
I cannot read them yet,
though my blood ticks time with their wings.

Their eyes are black seeds glinting in the sun.
I stand, approach, press palm to glass,
though they ignore me,
busy stitching their lower heaven.

My breathing slows and calms
as they weave round and round their creation,
though some, the sentinels,
line the sill in perfect punctuation.

The glass is cool to my cheek,
the sun a throbbing vacancy of blue.



 

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