He thinks:
The dragonfly larva
is not a young dragonfly.
It is a different life.
The larva cannot fly.
The imago cannot swim.
He wonders:
Am I
just for now
the larva of a man? Not a younger man
but a reassembling being, here—now
new above the forgotten lakebed.
And thinks:
Will I
after my wings have dried
and after my eyes have re-collected
their multiverse lenses and focused into bright sync,
will I
having looked about
into the windblown green and hungry
interstices of Something’s new world,
will I
when I am finally ready to leave
the surface of my dead life, become not the man
that has been me but newly constructed?
A fresh creation?
Will I
discover a light new world into which I dare
take web-laced wings to the sky
or reveal a great Appetite
into which I may wobble for a few ravenous hours?
