Stings, Theodore Worozbyt



Across the street in the abandoned
dairy farm, I climbed the helix
of corrugated iron,
flung the rotted tubes
of bottle seals, cracked rust
from the face-high fuse box.
They blew loud
from a nest of vomited paper.
Blood mixed with cinnabar,
a paste, automatic
wasps as I mashed and ran.


The yellow Caterpillar dozer
backed for good into the ivy sideyard
unsprung a single buzzing pendulum
at the corner of my eye.
A baking soda poultice
crusted salt, green
at the gland. I couldn’t see for a week.
I couldn’t read, but school was out.


In the apartment,
between the screen and sliding glass door
an egged nest of two daubers,
disregarding me. I crushed it.
One was gone.
Trailing its tipped, brown pearl from a needle,
it returns
to electrify the glass.
Newspaper rolled in hand
I say be still, be still,
as if to no one.

Theodore Worozbyt

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