—there were hundreds of them
—from above, a sea
of slick whips whorling burned
and in their burning became
softer versions of themselves
—like it had been wicked
—looked nothing like the field of goldenrod
from that September the cancer was growing
and we didn’t know it,
the droopy thrash of its messy yellows
that dripped, that leaked
their nectar but kept their seeds close
—the bees swarmed it
—nothing like the spiked ice fields, the lucky parts
the sun didn’t target
even in their orienting to it
—(how densely their rusty throats hovered there
and stained)
—the charred snags, the whole forest that carried on
on the mesa we winded through,
we must’ve been dreaming
—that oil would have kept on burning
—I wander through the halls of this dark house
calling and calling for you but am nothing more
than a face afloat without a mouth.