by Reginald Shepherd

    lights scrolls across an unmade bed，

    we were setting out for Aries

    in paper planes （white dwarf stars

    bright in a wilderness of wish scatter

    white feathers among me， fistfuls

    of light）： bees busied themselves

    with the seen， moment's

    multiple tasks， for the pollen， honey

    in the blood， bees would drown

    each day： from a thicket of nos

    to one sepaled blossoming， all

    in an afternoon

    you thought of bees as summer