No Man Hears in Springtime

A Poem

FLOP went bees into pavement on a noonday walk with Nanook.

We stopped.

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.

I shrugged.

Fuck It. The dog and I kept walking.