By night, the children examine 
their lamp lights and mattresses. 

By day, they no longer dislodge 
grasshoppers to place in holed jars

or stomp on bull ant mountains.
A mosquito fog obstructs the view 

of the river, the snaking, washed-up 
algae and recurrent weed bouquets.

The porch is hedged with latest repellents; 
five or six in every cupboard of the house. 

Ten spiders gather at the foot of the table leg 
and twelve scuttle from beneath the piano lid. 

The two muted strings during chopsticks 
are explained, and each speckled movement 

of the wall shadows. A For Sale sign, for six 
months, reads Premium Waterfront Property.

Earplugs block the siren of the unshifting 
blanket of crickets on the windowpane. 

The child raises her eyes from the screen
to ask what animal Kermit is and I tell 

the story of the creature with the bowl-like 
chin and delicate lever legs, dropped in 

water buckets, containers and eager palms 
until the coming of the next novelty.