As I pick it up I recall the creature’s daily clicking
and strange penchant for Astroturf, for the small island
of bright green plastic pointers sailing on concrete slab like a raft,
religious above the sea of dying green in my backyard.
I fancy how this exoskeleton might be placed
to rest in the Garden Of Death; the shrine that grows
from dead trees, beads and other offerings
in your once cold and empty concrete courtyard.
Despite all good intents it ends up on my porch,
green body boldly laid out on a pew of firewood,
among a somewhat conscious and deliberate arrangement
of kettles, bells and other collected or discarded whistles.
God, or the equivalent, I ponder, has strange journeys for us all.
A Dead Stick Insect for G.O.D.
1 December 2013