Mosquito,
what interest do you have in me,
a reader of poems in my garden chair,
my coffee cup, my pen, my blue marker.
There’s nothing here for you and nothing
in these sanguine words so edifying for me.
Go join the bee buzzing at the bloom,
hover with the four-winged dragon fly,
pray with the widowed mantis hungry
over the meal of her murdered mate.
Miles from here,
and several seas and many skies,
you fly fat, gorged on sucked dreams.
My world is plump with pleasantness.
Let it be.
Yet you are my necessity.
You land on my arm,
my ankle, my thigh,
thirsty for blood.
And I, with blood to spare,
need your menace to shake me
from my hypnotic lethargy.