As a child you found what was left
of them—exoskeletons clinging 
to the bark of trees. Perfect 
as anything. Perfect fit 
for a child’s hand. Perfectly empty, 
perfectly whole. Bodies so 
effortlessly slipped from 
they looked like paper lanterns
or little wooden boats, scoured 
and dry-docked for the winter.

It was tempting to think of them 
as ghosts, but they’re just 
the opposite. 

Not the part set free, but the part 
swept clean—abandoned latticework cabins, 
open to wind and rain. 

Such meticulous tenants, those 
June bugs. No one is as good 
at leaving their bodies as they.