It stands on its own six feet and considers
What it’s doing inside a verbal composition.
The head hurts at the back of the head, the neck.
I am, thinks the thing, a sort of an insect.
Carry on, then. Keep walking. Keep exploring.
You can’t beat an insect for finding the edges
Of the thing. We have to map the corners
Of our multiply-cornered existence. A trap,
Thinks the thing with a thorax and a creator
Named Kafka to thank for it. This is a trap.
And if it is, so what? Is anything one can’t evade
And fly away free from forever not a cage?
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