Wounded wasp,
Turning circles in the sunshine,
Hot with rage and
One warped wing—

I can’t help you,
But wish I could!
To be a surgeon
For your ailment—

Setting angles straight,
Poulticing pain;
But surely you would only
Sting me, bite me,

Passing poison
With no remorse.
Oh, wasp! Such reliable
Waspness! Bless you—

I will see you again
In tall grass, beatific,
Close to the earth,
Where cooling rains linger.