As I run to the springhouse
to get a cold drink,
I am laughing
and the world
absolutely sings.
For under the rafter
where their gray bag hung
like a paper temple,
as the ragged threshold,
on blue steps of air,
I have slain them all –
the flickering wasps
with red-earth bodies
and amber isin-
glass wings
and death in their asses.
How formidable they look,
how beautiful still
in their polished legion
in a windy corner!
And how fine the day is:
all blessed assurance,
safe and secure as the shining corpse
of the last dead warrior!
What can I do but laugh?
To kill one’s enemies
is a joyful exercise:
how else can one keep
the whole sweet problem
of deliverance alive?