When
you don’t see she steals
in
a little jar she seals
to
watch it squirm.
She
stuffs it in her luggage
takes
it home
and
careless lets the buggage
loose
to roam
the
nightstand first
and
then the very bed.
It
spins a damp cocoon inside her head.
Then
its web it chews
and
disembarks
and
like a star it strews
the
night with sparks
that
wake her without frightening
her
to catch
the
unexpected lightning
of
the hatch
and
neither whine nor tire
nor
misconstrue
her
wonder at the fire.
One
who knew
no
strike of light, no rub
of
heat before
has turned a flickering grub
to
meteor.