Insect Life

The hottest February for decades — ants swarm
on sink and pitcher, long armies dismantle
moths behind architraves, while solitary
climbers scale ruched sheets, primed with a pinch
that can dissolve the water lily mind.
As always, mosquitos — this crop smaller,
leaving lesser bites but many, cruising
unseen, unheard, as one sweats in the garden.
At the moment of perfect respite — oiled skin
gilded with sea and sunlight — a march fly jabs
an ankle: the first shot in a battle resolved
only by immersion, the cooling of pink welts.
The season ends with sugar still moated,
subliminal white butterflies.