too much about thinking
or does she? The bee I meant
to cut from its death-trap
spider web in the lamp
that lit my garden reading.
My convenience to keep it there
just long enough to finish
Gluck's lines: if I wanted only
to hold you, I could hold you
prisoner.
This morning, warm tea,
yellow light, jasmine vines,
forgotten bee, black, poisoned,
shrouded; now, the poet's words
make little sense to me:
those with the smallest hearts
have the greatest freedom.
