Origins and Metaphors

1. The View from Underground

After Bob Kane' s Darknight Detective

Was this the final piece, at last--what I' d waited for?
Black wings, a full moon overcast: all I' d waited for.

Years earlier, a trust fund kid, I sat, caught in the dark,
avenging swordsmen clashing, black-clad ghost I'd waited for.

The reel reached its predestined end. My parents rose to leave.
The lights came up, my heart beat fast. What was I waiting for?

The moon was out; we' d walk, a villain following behind,
so I imagined. Cabs rushed past. What were we stopping for?

I'd endlessly go over all: my mother's yellow dress,
Father' s decision to resist, brave words I'd waited for.

Was he a hero, too? The gunman threatened us--I froze.
He shot them both. I'd failed the test. What had I waited for?

A metaphor: I dwell in darkness, by my own black wings
enshrouded now, so you can rest. What am I waiting for?

Some call to rescue or revenge as I relive that night,
transformed, a predator released, no one they' d waited for.

Today, my gaze turned from the cave, I cannot understand
the world of light, words of a priest: nothing worth praying for.

For me, all lives are images projected on a screen,
all insubstantial shadows no one missed or waited for.

Still, I remain a scientist, for whom the heart is dark--
Yes, I've erased the past, the lost, all I'd once waited for.

That night the bat flew near, I knew it couldn' t be a man
who'd summon fear in both the just and those he waited for.

2. The Crimefighter's Apprentice

He'd seen his parents die, crowd ordered back. He' d watched them fall,
the trapeze split and dangling, Big Top black after they fell.

The tragedy disguised by costumes, comic, TV show
remained the core of who he was. Don' t look. He' d watched them fall.

Pale blanket knotted at the neck, I, too, would wear a mask,
wrestling my weary father, home from work. "Pretend to fall!"

The narrative obscure, no villain rose to challenge us--
no one, clothed in a question mark, would mock us as we fell.

Cliffhangers split in two for broadcast on successive nights
trapped heroes in the first half. What bad luck had made them fall?

Risk-takers, they had stumbled, dangling at the same abyss
that swallowed up their parents. World gone dark, they, too, would fall--

Next night, deus ex machina extracted from a belt
saved Bat and Acolyte: Houdini-like, they'd never fall.

My father never got the jokes--neither did I, too young--
But still he watched, a good sport, feigning shock when villains fell.

Perhaps the sum of who we are equals one moment's grief
held back and multiplied, a chalk-line's mark where bodies fell.

The memory of loss, of murder, hides behind a mask...
How did the saboteur escape? He struck, two people fell--

And yet, the boy would wear the colors not of darkness, grave,
or death-wish, but those of a thrush. Grim joke? He'd watched them fall.

But, deadened, he'd seen something else: merciless gravity
undone by triple-spins in flight, Fate tricked when no one fell.

Cross-Section of a Honeybee

Nothing is more fascinating than the study of insects
The delicacy of their structure is a marvel
Their organs like fine tracery are often outlined in white
Pieces of glued cork with pins inserted at the edges
Are submerged during dissection fastened to soft pieces of wood
Otherwise their soft parts may be matted together

And you'll be left with a whisk broom having to gather
Six legs and distinct heads buttonhole-shaped, how I love insects
And if I could carve one out of wood
Unsurpassed and delicately, its nerves a tiny marvel
I'd do so trying hard not to cut myself on the edges
Of scissors or needle point, no drop of blood against the white-

Blue skin I've long been known for, an Elizabethan white
You associate with the gown worn by a queen reeling together
With Francis Bacon and Thomas More all now tipsy round the edges
The patterns over their dresses like fine honeycombs of insects
Swarming with wings and beeswax while the crowds stand back and marvel
While the drones attending kneel hats off and say, Ah would

You could you care to dance, worm-like and wingless? Yes I would
Reserve a ticket for the metamorphosis, wear white
And watch the fine antennae blossom as in Andrew Marvell
More than 4000 muscles nerves and breathing tubes together
Work to make metaphors of roses visited by insects
Poised before fragrant pollen, petals rusty at the edges

Where they hover and dive in, gold crumbs clinging to the edges
Of their fur their wings their robes, how manufacturers of rosewood
Comprehend these metaphors while inhaling cyanide that insects
Find intoxicating, unpublished monographs on white
Card cover perfect-bound acid-free all come together
With a warning: Stop me before I kill More, but what really makes me marvel

Is how they clang their bracelets to lightning just like Captain Marvel
Chloroformed in a wide-mouthed bottle, yet they molt, discard the edges
Of cocoons some buffalo-shaped small dromedaries yoked together
Stay still! Fumes rise through plaster drench the throne room, all its wood
A fine mist like the powder of wings maybe fine powder puffs of white
The new queen dabs before she stings, her abdomen a cigar-box insects

Call Motel of Marvels, punch me in take your positions: I would
Sear Bacon at the edges mix plaster of paris with the whites
Of eggs and together build this pleasure dome of insects