A man vacuums up a swarm of ladybugs clustered in the corners of his ceiling. At first the job seems almost playful: the vacuum hose is a "magic wand" and a "reverse rifle," and the beetles vanish with a small rattle. The speaker is quick to say this isn't like hunting. There is no patient waiting, no thrill, and he feels nothing at all. The roar of the machine drowns out his thoughts.
But the poem slowly turns. He imagines a collapsing star howling, and the ladybugs, "bright clot of color, flame," end up guttering out in a sack of dust. Then the insects' alarm smell rises, and his stomach heaves. The final lines suggest the body wants to expel itself, "starting with the most recent foreign matter." The mood shifts from detached and businesslike to uneasy and queasy, as if the numbness he claimed was only a thin cover for guilt or a sense of his own disposability.