Termite Cycle
By Mark Wekander

What sends throngs against light,
dancing off their damn wings?
These sylphs' dark clumsy
wing-work battles light.
A cocoon, a type of dressing room,
is needed when grub grows wings.
But to drop them, the termite,
if anyone is watching, does
a public metamorphosis.
In the morning waspish wings litter
the floor below the bulb,
costumes tossed, like hot cars
ditched after the job. But this
is prior to the mayhem.
Wingless angels of decay,
worm off somewhere dark,
bore a table leg, a fallen branch,
drill a Bible from 'b' to back,
knocking out letters like
a ping-pong virus. "Thou shall not
ommit adultery." "Though I walk
in the alley of death, I fear no evil."
"Love thy neighbor as thy elf."
Decay brings the New Age.
And after chewing its way
through Kant, boring Finnegan's
Wake, and ingesting The Joy
Of Cooking, once again
clumsy dancers fly the night,
the new degeneration.

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