A scorpion once
landed on me
from a soap dispenser
It did not sting
but pulsed
inside its casing
like a brain does
to its skull

I am reminded
of this
as a wasp
has landed on
my leg
In trying
to lift a hair
it cannot

It seems
my only relief:
this agreement
with
not being seen.
I am not
presumed
as going to die
Neither
am I alive

I am forgiveless
There’s no
reason
I can think of
to tell you
any more