BEE ON A SILL
Submits to its own weight,
the bulb of itself too full,
too weak or too wise
to lift and go.
And something blunt in me
remembers the old charade
about putting a thing out
of its misery. For it? For me?
Sleep, Bee, deep and easy.
Hive, heave, give, grieve.
Then rise when you’re ready
from your soul’s hard floor
to sweet work
or some war.
live in the layers 