The wasp’s paper nest hung all winter.
Sun, angled in low and oblique,
Backlit—with cold fever—the dull lantern.
Emptied, the dangled nest drew him:
Gray. Translucent. At times an heirloom
Of glare, paper white as burning ash.
Neither destination nor charm, the nest
Possessed a gravity, lured him, nonetheless,
And he returned to behold the useless globe
Eclipse, wane and wax. He returned,
A restless ghost in a house the wind owns,
And the wind went right through him.