openings in loose clapboards.
Yes, I kill them.
These are our walls. Inside
we read to children.
Yellow jackets practice trophallaxis.
They scavenge for protein, barter it
They are silhouettes that hover,
red in the late-day sky.
Have you heard a child before
he rounds the corner? He clutches
his hand, approaching, wailing.
Have you seen our murderous
selves, our perplexed vanity?