I hate to admit it: how I hate
and love each prehistoric and alien bug
who screams and screams into the sun
boldly–their dumb and confident thwacks
against my windows, the sides of cars
sitting in the lot in their frenzy. 

I want to hold them in my hand now,
not run from them like the last time
or the time before that. I was just a kid
then. Let them cover my body
like a fevered blanket, writhing thing:
tied together by the oak tree and urge
to burrow and all else
that makes us kin.