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June Bug

I breathe a smoke ring
on the window where I see her—
small, crusty,
tough resilient,
lying dead on the sill—suffocated.

And then she came back to life,
legs twitching,
shell heaving—

I lie in bed both happy
and unhappy,
less than misery—
something like hope,
more like benign.

My bug has been here
for quite some time.