i see the beetle boring a hole
into the hurt of the old oak
where grandfather carved a heart

antennae flitting about in a flirt of disaster
a hint, perhaps, that piety is an emptiness
filled by the descent of one into the forgetfulness of all

the sun, high and cold, repeats himself
to the shadows as they dance for him
and him alone until night

six legs clasping to the bark
holding fast those jaws that dig
into the length of such fading life

i see the beetle pause before the pit
bored into the delicate beauty of that ancient tree
under which I kissed my bride

on four legs, a subtle rise to greet my rage
a statement of ennui, perhaps holiness is filling
like a prayer for the well-being of a mortal enemy

the sun, behind a tuft of cloud, obscures himself
before the sullen squish of fingers
then, neither glad nor unhappy, he returns

i see the old oak
before the fall
and cry.