When I first read
Kafka’s Metamorphosis
I thought to myself
What an outrageous premise
I woke one morning
And found I was an insect
But now I see
I am truly an insect
No agency, no volition
Just bustling about
In a colony of millions
Of similar insects with
No volition, no agency
Controlled by
Who knows what
The only counter-argument
To this is that
Insects don’t write poetry
Or do they?