A bee is flitting with my shoulder
pecking aimlessly around my ears
plotting a plan to strangle me

If the plan evolves
I fear I will become
anchored into
the depths of grief

And invaded by drips
of senselessness,  
fierce enough
that their stench
can’t be purged
with fans, perfumes
or candles

Will the enormity
of it all kindle
a fragmentation
more taxing than
trying to complete
the Rubik’s Cube
blindfolded