Back porch, twilight, garden on its late-summer binge.
Striders all over the pond. My mother called them Jesus bugs.

They don’t, though, walk so much as land, dimple-&-drift
on water, give it—you can almost hear—a sideways thwack

to launch a sideways hop. Or hump, they hump the water
& drift! Sparks of manic desiring alternate with perfect ease.

You, too, are a body; sink down in the butterfly canvas chair
and watch. Twenty minutes most. Each ripple

cradles a wiggle of vanishing summer light. But first
more mania: into the dying a gnat storm is rising,

a-jitter, like a worried thought: oh dear, oh dear, the day
is ending, but ending inside—wait, wait—the endless day.