The beetles we find near our dishes were run out of town.
They had no names. They only made red ink when crushed.
That was their signature. Whole beetle families gathered
around drains, either praying or clicking. They had no names.
Glass, sprinkled on asphalt: that is the night.
Where rabbits sneak gracefully under fences: that is this town.
Cockroaches are not welcome. The hum of electricity, wire
replacing branches: we are either praying or clicking
through force fields. We are not used to names, only slurs
whispered, the occasional bottle cap pressed into wet cement.
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