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.