interview with a worker bee

my love is on loan,

sent out on an aimless wind.

 

what happens here is between my

meticulous wings, always

 

buzzing, always hovering

above unnamed flowers.

 

the taste of completion

is like no other;

 

you keep moving toward it,

keep caressing the target:

 

knowing that on the other side

of the other side is a

 

convivial feast just waiting

for these mandibles.

un-finish-ed

we watch our mothers, and

our mothers’ mothers; we

see the face cream, the grays

edging in, the soft clasp of

 

gravity. but we don’t think we

will become them; we don’t think

we believe in form, in discipline,

in the sparrows hiding in the

 

fury. but gradually, gradually, the

edges begin to blur, the beaks start

to speak, and the frame fills:     this

is the only way to be with both the

 

sorrow and the bliss, with the passing of so

many chapters, and the grisly opening of a

deeper chasm of books never fully read, never

fully grasped, up to the very end: un-finish-ed.