I’ll be the first to admit it.
As another swaying casualty,
I do admire your suspension
technique. Your feast and famine.
Your field and fasten. Yes,
how you slung up that wasp.
How like a construction-
paper crown reality now appears.
The rhomboid jewels losing
what little span scissors
and tints lent them. Like sage
leaves giving way to their grey floss.
I still don’t know your name.
Or maybe you told me and I
404 Error. My index of memories
obsolesced. The heraldry
shrunk to point. Classification codes
dropped their prefixes. Wait,
maybe I do now remember.
Your given name. Isn’t it
404 Error. My mom’s name.
Brother’s too. The name I cry out
in the direction of my shoe
in the rust bluing of morning.
When I try to make something,
anything, move. “First things first,”
404 Error. Who’s or what’s to blame.
Having used up so much silk
and hunger, the wasp twists
in its terminal cocoon.
It’s not actually requesting
an apology. No. That’s a salute.