A child spends a long time lost in the space between the window
screen and the troth where the window fits when it come down,
an endlessly fascinating desert space of chipped white paint
and turned-over flies, spiders negotiating a corner
half of everything here is dead and it seems about right.
His mother warns him that the June bugs on their back
are only playing dead. Of course, he’s done that many times
himself playing cowboys and Indians, and usually you can tell
even through the glazed eyes when you pull back their lids
Nothing moves the black thorax with air entering the lungs
because there are no lungs. He thinks it’s cool that their skeleton
is on the outside, but he can’t see any bones,
Not like the dark costume he wears every Halloween where
his bones glow in the dark while ringing his neighbor’s door bell
and holding out a colorful sack for tricks and treats.