I am covered with bugs.
Beetles. Lice.
Creeping, crawling things.
No spiders.
They cling to my hair.
I wipe them from my eyelids.
They infest my mouth.
I chew.
I spit them out.
They taste like kidney beans.
The other poets are hosts, too.
We are all hosts.
Food tables outside,
covered in insects.
We dig in.