76

Sweeter to me than the honey and the honeycomb. Too sweet makes sour: we dress our anger as adoration. I cannot trust what does not doubt. An 18-wheeler crashed on the highway, its cargo millions of bees. Bees are dying and we don't know why: pesticides or sickness or long commutes. Migrants die in leaky boats, their positions like stars in some cluster fucked sky. Green paint, a woman's mouth, an arm cast over the side. I see so little from my sweet cell. I want to learn to love this earth without laceration. I want to punch my hand through the lens without breaking it. I want to cup a bee in my palm, place my arm around an arm. Adoration's nothing without clean water.

--16 May 2015