my little bees

What I put for words astounds me in my new blackheartedness

as it would anyone. Then this same rhetoresis goes for broke

all over the kitchen floor. The cats are not amused but

winter has its inevitabilities. We can use the stammering

for toothpicks any time. I love you. You and your verbs

compare me to an open cage from which the wild has obscured

itself by leaving. So I love you for casting me in verbs

and propping me up. A signal. For the survivals to come.