The Wasp.

In the garden I hear a wasp- the furious buzzing- I see the wasp- it struggles with thin wings over the thick leaves of the big daisies- they all deformed from aphid- they all farmed by ants- honey dew honey dew honey dew- poor wasp- poor wasp- this wasp, a big wasp, with perfect yellow black and alarming legs and antennae- the more you look- the more you see the wasp- and the frequently seen fear of it deepens into a dark fool- the sun is very bright yet turning to gold with the end of august- august- and the richness of the big daisy leaves- dark green- dark- background- the poor wasp is -  too - close- is -too -perfect. But something is wrong- oh -intuit - oh -that wrong way of movement- seen. No. I am appalled. I watch the wasp. I love the wasp. I want to help the wasp. It is in distress. I don't care what you think. It is in distress. Something is making it writhe. Something is in its head. It wants the thing out. It presses its head into its legs. Curls. Up. Falls to the floor. Turning tiny circles. I feel helpless. I lift it off the ground where ants have begun to feel it and run over its body. It falls- again - again - again - off the big daisy leaves. I find a safe place. The wasp is struggling. I see. She stumbles away from me and i do nothing but feel; grotesquely grown and witnessed.




And there was a memory of you saying- 'there were about twenty 'I's in that sentence'- and- I have wondered- why all the attacks on me... have been about my - selfishness? I make no comment on yours. Or yours.

And now I have lost mine.

And which I am I anyway?

...everyone photographs themselves in the mirror these days, poor mirror- poor reflections...