Apiary 40
04/28/2026 14:58h
The humble sense of being alive
under the towering sun
fills the nectary and ripens apricots
down to the last one,
if Mnemosyne wakens from apathy
each moment. It is the soft burly sound
of a bee tumbled in fritillary,
is it not?
But if memory, as if to illustrate
the mind was not yours to have,
the mind was not given,
fails us, leaving us in our underpants
in the garden, should we not
hate the garden,
or the woman whose garden
it is? And sunlight. Thunder.
Rain. Hardened in heart against
what earth compels and seizes,
goddamning, goddamned rain.