They fly and settle; settle, twitch and stand on
legs, necks, stems, windows, buds;
endeavoring not to draw attention to themselves.
Two hundred million of them for every
person standing on a wet planet.
You get on the weigh-scales one sunny day
and two tons of insect drop and spin
the dial you focus on critically;
thirty times your weight, twitching and writhing
- a pyramid of little aliens, crawling.
The Campaign Against Cruel Sports,
Beethoven, even poetic Shakespeare,
are tiny human accidents compared
to terror, anger, revulsion at these mites
and the fear of your own insect-like state.
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