In the late pull of afternoon
watered down by autumn coming
something is wrong.
The crack that has been growing through
the plaster over the low quiet summer
has begun, as I can’t, to weep.
Approaching fingers catch a deep hum
I wonder if the face of Mary
will bleed form my litte country house,
or the stern blue countenance of an un-named
The leak is sweet and cheek-on-plaster
unveils a thousand, thousand
wing-beats of industry.
Over the long summer of loss,
bees have made their home in my old chimney,
sealed away like so many other things.
The labor of all those tiny beings is so great,
it has broken the edges of my life,
and is pouring in.
I’m no longer writing about bees.