The Beetle Poem by Peter Black

I have a good friend called The Beetle.
We are true companions
And passionate lovers
Of the night and silence,
Of the cricket and toad chirp,
Of quiet.

I pick him up.
He picks me up from the dumps
Of a midnight sidewalk.
Our sex is far sweeter than that of human.
It ends without regret

On an empty road,
Or my porch.
Where I bid fine goodbye
From the front door.

As he hits the sky
Without a word—
But there needs no word;
Our conversation:
Us two talk intimately
And inanely of the world.

We go through the shadows
Of inanimate trees
Brought into life as we pass
From one of our whistling breezes.
We laugh and smile.
In each other's arms
In the other's hands,
And share a kiss,
Talking the pace.


It never ends. Please, let it never end.
But it does. In one of our complete breezes.
Lifting us up and away
Saying 'So-long, until we meet again.'
Soaring in our goodbyes.

Knowing we meet again
In the most fragile moment
Of snapping and cracking,
And twigs breaking
Bellow our feet.

It takes only a shift in the air,
Or tears salty upon the air.
Like the bell ringing—
We meet at the corner, grinning!
Again whole
In the others grasp.
And pass
The night.