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rough draft of a Rondel

December 29, 2007
Washing the trees with white, June bugs ring
The ground: fallen, iridescent, spiny things
Sewn, like sequins, onto skirts for the crape myrtle.
Daddy said the beetles were mine, shining, fertile,
Rainbow-painted like oily car-puddles in sunlight,
                Washing the trees with white.
Like gems we collected them carefully, skewered,
Slid from the rims into glass jars.  Fewer
Into the small ones, with a cottonball pressed
With formaldehyde, capped in gold lids dressed
With inky fin-de-siecle vines.  Was it pesticide or spite–
               Washing those trees with white?
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