An entomologist after an apocalypse

They told me don’t
go there. Don’t weep.
Millions of insects;
many of them lovers
dead under blasted stars.
Little creatures hiding themselves.
But I must
piece together each part for part.

This is a poetical form known as the golden shovel.
I took this from :

Don’t weep, insects –
Lovers, stars themselves,
Must part.

– Issa

*update: This poem ended up being a finalist for the day 5  thirty day napowrimo challenge at writers digest.

Leave a comment


  1. Wow, this is stunningly well done.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: