They know that death is merely of the body

    not the species， know that their putrid chitin

    is always memorable. We call them ugly

    with their blackened exoskeletons，

    their wall-crawlings as we paw at them.

    Extreme adaptability， we say.

    And where there‘s one there’s probably a million

    more who lie and laugh in cracks close by.

    At first they seem so pitiful and base

    feeding on what we leave behind. Content

    to watch us watching them， their hidden grace

    is endless procreation： it keeps them constant，

    believing they‘ll live to read our requiem

    with the godlike eyes we used to look at them.