Apologia

The minorly wingéd creature I just destroyed
trying to wave away from the rim of my glass
was meant to have an afterlife. How else

might I console myself, how else account
to another once-living thing I’ve harmed
and not always, like now, by accident?

So I’ll stay put awhile on this fenced-in
suburban lawn and let the warm late light
of early fall descend till all the leaves

above me and below go overripe
in the space of a minute, and in the next
turn murky, almost menacing.

I’ll wait with the patience of an offering
that night ascends to cloak from sight
and by my scent or with my heat combined

marks out a treat more than a threat
for any of a thousand things on wings
and I, for all my sins, am stung
and for my faults am all apologies.

First published, in an earlier version, in the Dash Literary Journal