It’s not about the bees.
We dream differently,
faces to the ground listening
for the tremble of the water table
set for who knows who?
It’s flowing through this earth
and that earth, weaving the earths together
into a primordial ooze. This is a mythology.
Who knows what is true?
In my dreams you are naked
and bleeding; you have three children;
you are a black butterfly; we argue.
I am a tree.
Feeling you move.