No Man Hears in Springtime
FLOP went bees into pavement on a noonday walk with Nanook.
N’s snout — a Sherlock (SS) — came alive and
inquired, said to me nostril raised, “Look! See!
Dead bees on grout canvas — a Pollock drip
scratch-n-sniff of cancerous sweetness, black
gold SPLAT! May he lick?”
I looked down and said “No.
But how do you know it’s cancer?”
“I’m bee whisperer; I read riddles on goldened grout
when tunnel vision steals you,” it answered
“The twisted tongues not from my head but of bees
on hot day’s pavement sing songs to me of toxins in
tunes of Fonofos and Fenthion, a last waltz ignored.”
I nodded and leaned in like towers in Rome;
couldn’t hear the hymns, instead I saw glossas
shimmy into honeybees like maggots on infected skin
cities wear like mink coats “whose tongues wag too,” said SS
“No one sees until killer bees start dying, even then
no one cares.” What do you mean? I thought then
asked as N’s snout returned; it didn’t respond.
Fuck It. The dog and I kept walking.