William Logan (2007)
Tentative, greedy, by night they came,
drawn to the insects drawn to the light.
Their shadow organs pulsed
beneath bellies distended as Falstaff's,
backs a tarnished armor studded
with the rosettes of some obscure disease.
What of their victims, the cannon fodder,
Welsh soldiery thrown each night
against the muzzle flare? Ragged, high-strung moths,
green lacewings streamlined like F-16s—
the geckos, like great officers and kings,
took them into their mouths, more or less
at leisure, with a gratifying snap.
Silently, of course, through the pane of glass,
where death comes only on a smaller scale.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
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1 comment:
from The New Yorker (April 23, 2007)
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