The persistence of a thickly shelled insect
madly smashing against the window
can sound like rain
-- but it isnít.
you open the sliding glass
and the dark night time fizzle
of another lost day
inviting with it the far off sound of the highway
and the lapsing moist coolness
of a precious temperate evening.
To your credit,
you had always believed my lies before.
But now this creature is in here with us.
you close the door behind it,
not even looking at how my eyes donít shut
as I watch in awe the finality of it all.
The insect now crawls slowly under the couch
and after that
it becomes somehow transfigured,
simultaneously miraculous and hallucinatory,
like the subjective presence
of my grandfathers eyes
accepting death in that hospital bed.