The wasp, hatched in a clay organ pipe,
maybe starts with the nerve cluster
of the nutritious thing the man
standing in the yard with a plastic hose
calls a spider. For the wasp
darkness smelling of mother’s saliva
and the dirt from a local streambank
he will come to know
and then he breaks out of the cell
as second shiny birth.
In his life, he will find a queen,
will mate, might even defend the nest
with his dark blue darting.
Hunting. Eating. And then
a closing darkness
like the organ pipe resealing.
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