full but the mist

moon

full, but the mist, the clouds

conceal you.  For days

and days there has been no break

in the rain—

and nights the most, thick

with cauls of fog.  I go out

anyway, make a road

toward where you might pause

for me if you knew me

to be looking

for you.

I have no blade, but I send

my bees ahead.  moon—

the closest we will

ever come to you is nectar

we nearly suffocate

to reach, deep

sweet pools we sip,

we swallow,

we boil within

to spill precisely in

our nearly solid waxy walls.

I want to

but I won’t

pick an evening

primrose and lay her on my hive

box, her perfume

a string you’d need

to find your way to me.

I want to

but I won’t;

there are others

who need you

more than I do. 

so we, the bees and me

rare on nights like these

are ferried through the air

by the ropy odours

of your moon

blooms. 

And we will stop

at such wells

throw back our wings

into the wide-gourded

throat and drink until we can’t

and bring back what we can

while what’s inside insists

itself  into liquid thickened

until it can no longer

without going solid

until we seem

each and in-

between

limbs and wings

to seep

and leak

and yes, please,

weep

…

will you taste

the first draught

of the honey of these nights?

Are you seized?

See, I will spill what of you

we’ve distilled into a thimble

and walk out when you are new

and begin to find you.

I will sleep in the of full day

and none in my pocket

but my liquid word:

 

you say it first.

Out loud.  Cloudless.

You breathe, please,

on me, what from your coated throat

is air I first began

with

sifted free

of all but one grain

of anthered dust

which, unseen,

seeks the plica,

the vocal fold

at the back of my throat

and settles there

feeling you

feeling me

begin

to become

undone