rain that might fall or floods
that might rise; a hole in the roof,
should the limb from the sycamore detach
in a storm. Imagine then an open bathroom
cabinet, orange transparency of empty
bottles; the thud of a body on tile.
You thought, how could strangers weep for
your pain? How could someone not even blood
grieve with you through the day? In the orchards,
among rows of bee boxes, what we know of honey
makes it possible to don layers of nets,
to plunge both arms into the hive and lift out
the bees, stunned from smoke but still clinging.
In response to Via Negativa: Small time.