
Infinite Buzzing
If they ever stop
the world will end:
shatter into a silence
of gloom.
The crust of the Earth
is the skin of a drum
that vibrates with the
pitch of a thousand calls and wriggles.
We can barely stay stood
on this boarded, fine wood
the insects use as their
musical theatre.
Their relay unceased
like the roar of a beast
desperate for a moment’s
attention.