Spring squashes the first insect Poem by Dmytro Lazutkin

spring squashes the first insect

and the street smells of cucumber juice
when you stop
at winds' crossing
under a red light

and there's no chance
no hope
and hundreds of cell phone explosions —
name that tune
come up with a tune
know your own . . .

I can't hear anything
I can't hear anything at all

your airships of red clay
like pills tossed
into a dampened chalice of space

your dentist's tools
play amongst themselves in their free time

and emergency instructions
constantly repeat —
you must adapt
to any situation
you must adapt

spring has killed an insect
I've seen worse monstrosities