The bees picked up from my garden
In the swelt of an August noon;
To leave such loose blossoms behind
And fly –
Pallid in death,
As they swell in their race
To touch the tarpaulin sky.
I watch them lumber, now
Through air congealed
With ghasts of smoke
And a meagre scant of sorrow.
And my heart might stop for fear of a future.
Such love was like a fire –
A touch that scarred a blazed redemption;
Pleasure in pain and raging glory.
Such a violent anguish
To love, to hold, to cherish
And so save from a timeless transience.
And her eyes might melt my soul
If only she would look at me.
"So block out the sun with your pallor!" –
A challenge was screamed to the sun,
With dark arms outstretched and dark head thrown back
And a poisoned gape of a mouth –
"Show me such polished, white death
"And lost, glazed eyes," –
Tongue this brilliant with beads of scorn