Darkling beetle, black and shining jewel,
What jeweler could have formed you, with what tool?
What burr or jig or pliers set your shape,
On what suspended rod your armor draped,
On which round mold your head and thorax bent,
For whose joy were those elytra meant —
What burin graved the parallels that run
From point of wing to where the head's begun?
Your mandibles that twist, your eyes that globe,
Your furred antennae delicate that probe
The galleries that run beneath the bark
Of dying trees — who made you for the dark?
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