We switch across
this nervous space,
zoom and hover in swarms,
mosquitoes ever probing, scatting off,
breath in our exhausted breath of harms.
The garden was
pure quiet space
until attacked and destroyed by swarms
of insects, they say, that carried off
The apple tree and its list of earthly harms.
We touch to still,
make holy space
and hand in hand climb above the swarms
of days too stuffed and restless to shake off
this curse. We stare down these self-made harms.