The Caterpillar Speaks in Tongues

The Caterpillar Speaks in Tongues

I can see each segment converse
with the next, a Newton's Cradle
of green pulp, a susurrus and hum

of tiny hairs crossing and uncrossing
like rods in water-divination.
I can almost hear the little pin-leg

plucks like rain. Each thrum
of rosary curve is a word

entered into a dictionary of silences.
Even voiceless, its spiracles rattle
and gasp; it wheezes

over thorny script, repeating
its prayers thirteen times.