Wasps keep circling
the shutters, long stalks
of grass dangling
from thin back legs,
and when they crawl between the slats
into the small dark,
they bring their greeny materials
with them.

There is nothing here
you can’t leave.  Despite
all your kind diligence,
the actual time, the slow
and loving duration of our attentions,
there is nothing in this world
we can’t abandon.
We are human.

The movements of wasps
are terrible, hovering
sometimes, sometimes
jabbing through the air.
I watch them at their task—
how they build
and build again
calmly.

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