I found a cricket in my kitchen, wounded, on its back,
little legs flailing as if it could walk upside down. I heard
no chirps, no yelps of pain, no cries for help;
I lacked the heart to crush him. Gently, I carried him
to my yard, left him, right-side up, wriggling, by a rose bush.
Hours later, I returned, and he was gone. I don’t know whether
he flew off, or, more likely, was eaten alive; whether
it would have been better to kill and discard him
like so much plastic, dreams, ideas. O, when night
descends like locusts, I sit by the roses and breathe
in my godlike power: there’s the garden I cultivate, there
the creatures at my mercy. And beyond, marveling at
the universe from which I hide my broken wings, I reach
for the old bucket of glue that can hardly hold itself together.