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Sad weekdays of waiting.

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For your delight

For your delight, take from my palms
A little sun, a little honey,
As Persephone's bees have ordered us.

You can't cast off an unmoored boat,
Or hear a shadow shod in fur,
Or conquer fear in this primeval life.

All that remains for us are kisses,
Furry, like tiny bees
That die as they quit their hive.

They rustle in night's transparent thickets,
They nest in the primeval Taygetus forest,
They feed on time, Spirea, mint.

For your delight, then, take my savage present -
This plain dry necklace
Of dead bees who turned honey to sun.

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