(revised)
They're painters on skates
who brush and dab a cold canvas
they whirl and glide on.
They're sleep-walkers
in pajamas, wandering
on a bright dream's stage--
everyone else in darkness,
looking on, transfixed.
Hornets and wasps
in snarling squads,
swarm out of the nest--
sent mad by one
black fly gliding among
them, a dark dot
playing dead, then jetting off.
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