Tent caterpillars are letting themselves
down their almost invisible threads,
a horror movie of caterpillars, thickly
entwined on the walls and crushed into
a sticky sidewalk mass. They are down
my back, in my hair. I like it, though,
from up close when the sun’s behind
and each one’s tiny hairs glisten
like a teenage boy’s gelled spikes. And
furthermore when I float in my kayak
over the ancient boat sunk beside
the dock and the tires fastened together
like ghostly underwater flowers,
all now encrusted with zebra mussels
(every stick, every chain and tire,
their tiny shells piling up, sucking out
the water’s life until it’s clear
as the Caribbean), I’m guiltily unsure
if I would change it back again.
As with the caterpillar’s glistenings,
one scooch after the other, tiny body
waving along. As with the ones I’ve loved,
gradually going, those I hardly see
anymore, too, the veil keeps falling away
and I’m left with these worms feeling
for the sky, and whom do I turn to,
to say this is more than I ever thought,
and no worse than what it is?