Vespers
CAITLIN PALO
We live in an immanent world,
closed off
from transcendence.
The wasp in spring strikes
the window as she angles in
to the crevice to build
her dwelling, papered over
with mandible milled
pulp and spit.
If she builds, ten thousand
will join her - the buzz
will hum day and night,
our summer lives hemmed in
by swarm.
You can tell me
the evening song
is unrelated to
the vespid
but in the twilight
I close my eyes
to hear the drone of wings
against a mesh screen
and hear the divine office,
Venus rising in the west.