I love termites.
I think they're totally cool.
I know we have to get rid of them, which is sad.
My dad's church, St Michael's, I know they're
getting rid of the termites.
But I do think that there's something magical and beautiful
about those little arms.
And they're just like poets, living underground,
doing really good work by transforming in their bodies.
So anyway, I do love termites even though I do spray them.
So continuing in the seasonal vein--
so in California, and I know in Tucson too,
there are micro-seasons.
There's not just two seasons-- they say in Tucson,
there are only two seasons.
But there are many seasons.
And so we have at least 30 seasons, micro-seasons,
in California and the Bay Area where I live.
"Grammar of This Life at Noon."
"The immortals wait in the fields,
and the newt under the laurel, a dragon whose three heads
argued with themselves.
The push thistles, Celastrina echo butterfly
with automatic semicolons on its wings,
'twill hide under the Clorox cloud, and that's that.
Some punctuation is just too sensitive to be outside.
Stubby white teeth on that baby vole, smile on its face,
screep, like Gnostic Jesus, it's comma, comma, comma, claws.
Clause, verbless mosquito egg daylight.
Worker, dreamer, your soul has slept with countesses
so long his hands still smell like money.
He says to himself, my Lord, the sun,
has thrown his sexual shadow upon me.
Oops, where did it go?
It's just fallen behind something.
What has?
Whatever you lost."