the endless fields of larkspur & lily; the gentle sounds we make when we do not fear being heard.
in some stolen moment, our backs blinding against the sun; our mouths sweetened ripe just like the things we have not yet made;
a lightness made gossamer wings & that place where we forget everything but taking flight.
this whole of the aching sky & more, the bounds beyond which we dare not or have not yet touched.
& out of the blue, ribbons of light, a forgotten stream of honey, or love that we have not yet made.
our bodies an offering; a minute harvest summered & reaped before we are able to see what we have done.
*the boys are back in town playing from a beat up jukebox in the corner as i slam shots of well ***** & maintain a visceral & prolonged eye contact w/ you* anyway i love bees & i love poetry & i'm glad that i'm finally able to write something worthwhile.