Day 100: Husk

The dragonfly is dead.  His carcass rests
On water like a reckoning, a hollow
Reminder of my dried-out hopes and jests,
The restless, madcap dreams I used to follow,
The poetry I wrote when sentiment
Seemed unaware of "sentimental," and
The fluid verse looked clear of sediment --
And sonnets were a way to understand.
My sonnet-lined epistemology
Is clogged with bodies, bugs that touched the light-
Bulbs one more time.  My soft apology
Repeats in fourteen lines, and rhymes despite
The body count. His copper husk looks pretty;
It's fixed in place for beauty, not for pity.