Walking through a cloud of gnats,
I cough, shield my face from the bugs
as if blocking the sun.
I breathe one in, maybe two,
swat them from my mind
It is awful how they die in my mouth.
To them, I am a natural disaster.
When we need to unmake experience,
we try to revise it.
Inadvertently, we return
to all small shames.
Our destructions come fluttering back
as soon as we call them,
they are that obedient to us.