"mixed blessings of protection"

Out of most of the doors,
almost in the first real, beautiful day for weeks
and enjoying the sceened-in porch
by yourself,

the sudden,
dancing retreating advancing whine
like a siren, a rotary saw, into
then out of the audible, middle
then near in the distance - is recognized:

one of the bugs you have found
getting happy and fat on your blood. You know
the kind,
and it pricks
your ears

and your nerves thrill sick, every sense
on alert looking out for it
as your blood takes up
the alarming whine like a populace
trembling at the crime - but surely,

safe?
In here, screened away?
Behind metal walls,
solid with billions of tiny squared holes,
in perfect array to let in the sun,
and the breeze,

and the sound

just the sound of the siren's whine? Just to remind,

how good it is - to be here,
screened off, almost in the day
so fine. Just to call,

for to tempt the blood. Just
for suspense, to build release. Just

to madden the mind with rising red,
til' you leap from the temple of sacrifice
and burst out with a yell of crazed defeat,

to acquiesce to liquidity,
consent to become the elect,
as you join the feast.