Lots of mosquitoes around Park Slope lately,
my skin is allegic, so I'm an itchy guy. So far
no West Nile virus to worry about, and looking
around the www for info on spraying, turns
out that doesn't help in the long run. So, meanwhile,
itch cream and covering my body with
anti-mosquito spray.

What's all this got to do with poetry? Looking
through, today, Bob Holman's *Call Collect
of the Wild* (John MacRae, 1995) I found
this:

"A million years ago" Bob killed a mosquito
when high on LSD. 22 years later
He wrote.

*No Longer Killing Mosquitos*

here is the ending:

"...Today heavenly, above Lake Canandaiga,
Twenty-two years later, far from madding, no drugs, I sit
In a spot of nature and write this poem
So on a downed lodgepole pine, some calcified droppings,
By my feet- bear's? or human's? From the scat I carefully
Extract, using my pen, the carcass of a Daddy Longlegs
And watch as an ant carries it off. A caterpillar
Wriggles over my pants, and again with a pen
I lift it off and transport it, dangling,
To new oak leaf. At home, West 12th Street,
10014, my daughters are just getting back from school,
Elizabeth and I have been married 11 years,
I am writer-in-residence here at Gell House,
Finger Lakes. I am perched out behind
The hidden cabin, just above the tombstone
of the Gells. When mosquitos land,
I wave them gently on their way."