Inside Out

the forest is like a house emptied by burglars

when i am old i hope to be this free and open

with fire stolen from the sun

but where have all the caterpillars gone

hungry hungry

long time passing they’re all in uniform

and dormant now overwintering as sex machines

hemolymph flooded with glycerol so ice won’t form

or lying dead in the leaf duff wings neatly folded

with somewhere an egg small as the dot of an i

waiting for spring’s open sesame