I opened that poetry book I recall I had been reading one distant summer day, one now foreign year, by the lake. And a tiny mummy of a ladybug fell out like punctuation, a casualty of outdoor reading, carapace in a carapace.
Dear Little Polka Dots, I’m sorry. I never saw you fly in. I never knew I buried you alive in stanzas. Your little skeleton’s the bookmark of your fate.
Cute as a button,
dead as late.