Nothing is sleeping near me.
The swarm is daylight
wadding up the dark
construction paper of night.
The swarm is pointillist,
is paint-by-numbers moved
before drying. Continuous drip.
Swarms remind me of poets
and my country folk
announcing on a hot day
their assessment: ‘s’warm.
The last swarm I saw was
of locusts, duh, charring a field
in 19th century North Carolina.
Filmic because in fact a film.
It is not time to sleep.
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