the lady-beetle’s near-crimson splendor, faded by October
she crawls the window screen, sunshine on her back
the pines’ prickly shadows, long, now– even by early afternoon
creep across the day’s amber whisper

ten, and then twenty more– arriving
and then fifty– round red-ladies, amassing
tho never touching
and no shadow cast, different
from any other

two– caught in a spider’s web, abandoned
as the first climbs through a hole
entering the perilous shade of my thoughts
insistent flutter-buzzing echoes in the umber chasm
between alto and tenor
dimming, as she tires

in my wordlessness, within this
silent tomb
I name her–

and I pretend not to notice
her presence

One Reply to “Déjà”

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