but in uncertain climates, skies are clear.
which is to say, belly up you crush of virion throngs—
let's glow with the sun on our bright faces, all home
bodyhome and bedhome, peoplehome grow
honeybee! when has the crush ever not been forever?
I confess my crushes to the long hours of the day, I bear the weight:
honey turns suckle, water turns melon—what doesn't make me wet for other
waiting is a way to want. winter taught me that.
each ancestor in my thigh says i want you to win;
every honeybee waves a pollen banner, hums us into fruit and yes
so, yes. the world made different is again the same world.
if our bodies atrophy, it is only the crushing of room for the bloomparade, the century's great wilding
is the same as the movement from me to we. take my hand, dear love, and dance:
we are heavy flesh. our bodies a trophy.