A quiver begins in the hold,
the first sign of upset
native to the ant-lion.

The eggs sit gelatin and expectant,
bearing the gloss of glass beads
for an instant

before breaking —
quick jubilee into
breath-wrung,
slow-starved parcels.

For a moment it is clearly wrought:
the fusion of the two
stands out like pearls of sweat,
a pattern of hot clashes,
descending the depth of a pit,
ascending at every nit.