Late Autumn Wasp

One must admire the desperate way
                it flings
itself through air amid winter’s slow
                paralysis,

and clings to shriveled fruit, dropped
                Coke bottle,
any sugary residue, any unctuous
                carcass,

and slug-drunk grows stiff, its joints
                unswiveled,
wings stale and oar-still, like a heart;
                yes, almost

too easily like a heart the way, cudgeled,
                it lies
waiting for shift of season, light, a thing
                to drink down,

gnaw on, or, failing that, leaves half of
                itself torn
willingly, ever-quivering, in some
                larger figure.