A honey bee has landed on my pen.
It walks inside the cave my holding the pen makes,
pushing its triangle head between the fingers
the way small dogs burrow after objects
meaningful to their ways.
I was wandering the late morning
where the river and the sea fill
looking for clues to validate, or disprove
true love written, terse and clear,
and I found a piece of paper,
note-pink, a handwritten message,
Romans 12:5. I wondered
long and gently if the authors,
the first, before Nicea, meant
the single being manifold
container of the Specie?
Thus the bee, a single mortal
issue from the Bee itself.
And Dog made the canine
after his many images.
Made some in other places,
with bodies like shepherds,
and stockbrokers. And the man
I am has a mind like an insect
in size relation to the elephant,
a punk like untamed divinity,
afraid, in the unfearful sense
of the vernacular, to say: I am
right, therefore no two rights can
occupy…The same Ego.
Igo, He, and Thou. I couldn’t shake
the ‘Me’ off when I wanted, now
I can’t let go, using brain cells
and animals to think the unsolvable, subjects
thinkers deepest, searchers over ages,
and, in conclusion, I give up—to rest
awhile within this human battle
to fathom identity, this conical
prism, council of vision and formula;
too often the distance between things
isn’t, I’m having to let myself go.