mechanical insect 

in the night the angels take turns
winding up the false bugs between
the real ones. i am a classic case of capgras.
i know that everyone is always in the process
of trading skin with the soil. you are not
who you say you are & i am running without a face.
once i spoke to a boy on the subway
& i am certain he was an octopus.
a man came by to buy some earrings 
& he was petting a stuffed dog. his baby. 
how do you know what is & isn't a baby?
on facebook the dog shelter posts that they've found
puppies in a dumpster again. they are little 
radios. each of them on a different station.
the last line in the post says, "if you know
the mother, please bring her to us
no questions asked." i have seldom found myself
in a "no questions asked" scenario. 
at the hospital, you can leave your baby 
& they will fill it with strawberries 
until their name turns into a button-mash god. 
i was trying to tell you about the bugs.
i keep a fly swatter by my desk.
the moths are sometimes tiny versions
of my elementary school teachers. they scold me.
worst are those thick flies though. they are
wandering periods searching for
a thought to button-up for winter.
i smash one & find it is a little machine.
just like i am a little machine. the angels come
to collect their handiwork. they say,
"get into the dumpster." i obey because
when an angel speaks you have little choice. 
i lay there & wait to be rescued. to be sung to.
or, at least, for more insects to come 
in their little fairy cloud. each a little camera 
knit by the angels. they tell me
they just watch because they're bored.