I want to read another insect poem.
You know, the insects keep occurring in these poems.
Nobody speaks well of insects.
And somebody said to me once not long ago, do you like insects?
And I thought about it, I thought,
one of the great things about insects
is that it's totally irrelevant whether you like them or not.
This one's called "After the Alphabet".
"I'm trying to decipher the language of insects.
They are the tongues of the future.
Their vocabularies describe buildings as food.
They can depict dark water and the veins of trees.
They can convey what they do not know,
and what is known at a distance, and what nobody knows.
They have terms for making music with the legs.
They can recount changing in a sleep-like death.
They can sing with wings.
The speakers are their own meaning
in a grammar without horizons.
They are wholly articulate.
They are never important.
They are everything."