The June bug
not cut out for April
hugs the pen tip I offer
and flips back onto its belly.
Its wings overscissored,
with two legs it drags itself
through the pollen field
of the tabletop,
a wounded soldier,
over a twig, then back,
then over again,
each effort Herculean.
How aimless,
I think.
What a waste
of my mercy.
It has stopped,
nestled between the twig
and the finger of a leaf.
And what of that?
What if it wanted
only to die
right side up
facing west?
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