I’ve my beetle in a box like yours, so much
like hours spent feelers spread against u-
tilitarian carpet cubicle, hard shell crackled
with pock and divot, forewings tucked away.
On scuttling legs, our bugs crawl in dark,
and yet I dream of some sun dappled meadow
buzz and dewy spongegrass underfoot glow
that emanates from inside, a bioluminescent
soul song that could join a light lattice choir
to spite the sun, if not for lids we keep clamped
tight over boxes, the secret life we keep hid.
If we could only find some sort of release
we would place our bugs in a tabletop maze, race
as a means to compare my bug to yours.
(The boxes don’t open though.) We don’t know whose
is quicker, more beautiful, singing the sweeter song.
All we really know is that there’s something in there
knocking around, and we trust that it’s beetles,
that yours looks something like mine and that
maybe we’re of the same species.