To leave the light on is to let them in, the drone:

their arrival thick in your ear, denying sleep.
My brother rests more deeply than me;
he wakes covered in their raised kisses. The love

they take for their children. My blood is bitter;

they do not like the taste. I go down to the gutters

where they breed, hatch and feed in the tepid

airless water. I stand at the edge;

wait so still I might be a tree, or hanging
from a tree. They know me and do not settle –

my hands would smear their stained-glass

wings; pink-amber bellies crushed
black and red between the hairs of my legs,

brother-blood on the palms of my hands.