It’s not always Friday
for the bees they have
their moaning in mid-winter
the neutrons and the protons
huddled like a mulberry with
the electrons racing round
the idea of a god when
one or two bees sail off
into the bluest riddled
day to fall and die
saving the hive from
having to dispose of them
or the departure of the drones
on the warmest day after mating
one thinks of all one’s bad
ideas leaving one for good
only a field where demons
and angels struggle for
our undivided attention
and complete flowering.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment