From the Fishouse

Someone is turning the light
down on the world

moths go mad
with the lack

of desire

people forget to waken

but all it takes
is somewhere

a yellow field

a boy chucking
stones at a nest

of wasps

and the black alphabet
unscrolls

from its paper sheath

writes across his face
and hands

all the pain
for which time is

meaningless:

the wings
a passing train
parts from the body

we call our hearts

the rainthirst
under the eyelids

we call love

and when they are done

the sting
enters the sun

the faint day

begins to taste again
like honey

but the sad thing

the boy will be
convinced

for a long time

he was extraordinary
to survive that
afternoon

with a perfect
abiding

fear of bees

that he will owe
each of his lovers

o tender

secret he whispers
to their sweat-glazed bellies

and pale inner arms
all the soft

exposed places