Tayve Neese

Blessing the Locusts

Their bulbous eyes shun my shape below,
focus only on their own faceted

wings, swarm’s burrow
in tree top, Spanish moss.

Let them, in their fixation,
make one song from a thousand bodies.

Let them deny my aorta’s own 
thrum, show me the beauty of being

nothing, plague’s gift
under August sun.

Forthcoming in Locust from Salmon Poetry.