Wasp

  Wasp swings low
   as a sweet chariot
  carried home on the
   ethanol of sun seasoned
    pears that blur the trees
   until it seems that they are seen
    through droning wings. 'Leave
     that nest and build your own,'
      the cider addled instinct sings.

     Wasp swings low
    as a grandfather-
   clock's pendulum
  plumb, caught high
   struck dumb by an ox-
    tail's swing, and thus
     flung flat to the ground.

     Wasp swings low
    as a drought-dwindled
     river through gardens
      flowing unwelcome to
       dining tables, shooed
      away from dessert wafted
     out of windows and back
    into the cruel old town.

    Wasp swings low
   as a cheap-shot, blown
    through a subway to nip
     into the train as the doors
      hiss closed. Wasp's lost
     as a whale on the moon,
    there's nowhere to go, and
   wasps can't read 'way out' signs.
    The only exit now is as a splat,
   or as a bloody apostrophe, smudged
  into the front page of Le Monde.