At dusk, the June bugs gather

around the bare porch bulb.

They do not flit or dive but batter

themselves against the wood,

the brick, the hot glass. 

All evening you hear them. 

You fall asleep to their patter 

and in the morning sweep

the carcasses into the shrubs.

Sad, you think, like unrequited love.

Night after night, they return

to knock themselves senseless. 

You laugh at their stupidity.

But insects have no sense of tragedy.

They see a glow in the darkness, 

Rush to its embrace, and there is

light, light, light until they die. 

Taken from the collection “In the Night Speaking” with permission from the author.