september 21, 2000. A poem I wrote today: Thursday Morning Locusts Converge like locusts scattered to the winds in reverse. We home in, our mandate of devouring somehow replaced. Ancient purpose gives way. "we will regurgitate character!" "we will nurture every bud!" "we will be the new breed, locusts of a new land!" I wonder:       how long it will take       before they/we/I succumb       to nature vs. nurture       and take the first little nibble?