CONYER CLAYTON

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.

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