Honey
First the bees, the flowers go, then the world . . .
This the way it happens,
isn’t it? Not invisibly, per se, but working so
small,
so much with an animal’s
whimper—
The way it always happens,
really, when considered:
how even the fiery times, crucifixions, wars
all start some ages ago, and quietly,
with a ruffle in the crown-state,
a crack in the heart’s fine under-board.
The invisible, I think,
is not as much beyond our vision,
as ignored by it.
Though—
Though this isn’t exactly the song I’d meant to sing—
had dutifully dutifully rehearsed—
I meant to tell you:
I get it; I hate—but I understand it; and yes
I’ll miss that sweet thick shining taste.
Floating Wolf
