Insects are milling
on the cold fluorescent ceiling
of a dormitory.
It is Spring, and from their beds
teenage boys exchange
their kits of desire
along with quips
and spare pieces of philosophy.
Above them, a miriad forms
of filament, chassis and canister
are pinned out in an upside down
museum display,
a great mismatching
of thorax, legs, abdomen, antennae.
For now, this is an entomological worshipping
of human light.
Later, when the lights go out,
the insects will scatter
to who knows where,
to deal with
who knows what matter.
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