In
the springtime darkness, Dad's torch dazzles
The dahlias. Moving from bloom to bloom,
He delicately picks up the earwigs
In his own giant pincers, thumb and forefinger,
Whose tips are blackened with the juice
Of their crushed corpses. He works in silence
Lest his breathing should alert the enemy.
They are called earwigs, after all - Who knows
If they're stone deaf or hyperacusic? -
Anything's possible.
