The Caterpillar Speaks in Tongues
I can see each segment converse
with the next, a Newton's Cradle
of green pulp, a susurrus and hum
of tiny hairs crossing and uncrossing
like rods in water-divination.
I can almost hear the little pin-leg
plucks like rain. Each thrum
of rosary curve is a word
entered into a dictionary of silences.
Even voiceless, its spiracles rattle
and gasp; it wheezes
over thorny script, repeating
its prayers thirteen times.
