Restful as a hornet I forgot to tuck my legs away when I was done with them. I'm a ladybug just landed, softwing still showing under hardwing, sheer curtains under the blackout. Are we inside or out, the window or the screen, the trigger or the memory, I'm done with it. I'm coming in to land. I'll take a gap year on a warm flat of brick, the twenty 2x4s under the deck. Maybe I'm the plastic in the crawl space that refuses to be glued. My wings no one sees, gather moisture. There's water where there shouldn't be but who made you the rock police, huh? If my legs are slate, tired as granite, limestone shaved or stubbly, that's fine by me. Does escape take place within my body or without it, wither my body or with him. I dare you to rest with some uncertainty for a full calendar year. Double-dog. Triple-bee. I quadruple-demon dare you to not make plans excepting stretching. Make your body as restful as a hornet. Or wait, the opposite. A photograph of a hornet. Wings in full flurry. The blur compels you to stay in the tub. Like a house centipede. I let myself be drained.