the forest is like a house
emptied by burglars
when i am old i hope
to be this free and open
with fire stolen
from the sun
but where have all
the caterpillars gone
hungry
hungry
long time passing
they’re all in uniform
and dormant now
overwintering as sex machines
hemolymph flooded with glycerol
so ice won’t form
or lying dead in the leaf duff
wings neatly folded
with somewhere an egg
small as the dot of an i
waiting for spring’s
open sesame