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I am reading Franz Wright's Earlier Poems.

One of my favorite poem from the book...

***
MOSQUITOES

Playing your trumpets
thin as a needle
in my ear,
standing on my finger

or on the back of my neck
like the best arguments
against pity I know.
You insignificant vampires

who sip my life
through a straw;
you drop of blood
with wings;

carriers
of insomnia
I search for
with a lit match.

I had a job once
driving around in a truck
to look for your eggs.
They can be found

in ditches, near
train tracks, outside
of a barn
in an upright piano filled with rainwater.

It is impossible to kill
all of you,
invisible in the uncut grass
at the edges of the cemetery:

when the dogs go down there it
looks like they've gotten into birds.

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