Poetry

Daytime, Upper Booth, 10/9/2009
(from Late Summer)

We pitch our tent

on the green bushy grass

near a round wasp nest.

Our day of reclining

crawls with the grazing

of stocky

black and yellow creatures

whose mandibles

nibble at the skin.

They crawl

on my sunburnt legs

as we sit silent

and still in the field,

recollecting the

landscape around us.

All over our arms

and bare chests

the wasps graze

their limpet path.

In the field, a hare

moves into then out of range.

When wasp

buzz butts my cheeks,

I wave it away.

Later, we both tell them

to fuck off.

At lunch

we eat apples,

throwing them

the cores, over which

they swarm.

Mark Doyle