the bee’s shadow rose to meet me & when i walked home down the alleyway this evening
with the light low & the shadows long & the flower stems & high houses like silhouettes
on the hill, i understood but had no words to tell it. is that a form of irony because –
when i woke i’d nothing to say but wanted to talk anyway. one could, i guess,
cut one’s wrist with a Stanley blade as everything is
how i want it (to be) &, me high as a sculptured
icon &, perfect. tonight i reproduce for you
rudimental waves, black strokes//a sea
WhiteSky 8 mile deep/sail between
the line – Go West! Unless
yr in the Far East – in
which case – go!
east y’all –
it’s um
,
geopolitical, obviously.
thanks guys. yes, i wonder about it now. seems gratuitous – the blade
missed this the first time. like the bee shadow, too, but the promise of the tiny ‘enchanting’ bobbling insect somehow flies out of the poem through Stanley’s incision!
Love the structure diminishing down to that last line, Marco. The bee shadow I find enchanting, and the humour of the final ‘geopolitical’!