BEE
if the bee were finally to land
here in the open air, out of my chest
out of my arms and knees,
to not be buzzing where I bend
if the bee would land outside,
on my skin, on my hair,
not inside,
where the ropes pull levers down.
HEAR
I’m outside: breeze picks at my hair,
leans on me because it is feeling slight,
and I’m availably immersed in limbs,
rigid where the bench is cold,
ready to bless or flee my neighbors,
tending to approve.
AN OWL
The wind moves on
because there is
insolubly an owl.
That will not blow to pieces.
There is a swamp jellied with slugs,
turgid with leaves, flaccid with heat,
in every mirror there’s a gaze,
I flip, I sweat, I dream uncovered up,
my dreams float to the top and then
disperse,
I tell you every party holds a friend,
in the flat place between the wall and furniture,
my flora rages, this is natural,
this is the snake to spur me,
seed the plants:
a swallowing,
a heavy child,
a horse unshoeing as it stamps a trail.
♥ ♥ ♥
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