Their season’s over
and now they’re drunk
and nasty, banging at
the screen. I can’t blame
them, drunk and nasty
myself, wondering how
I wasted another summer
and dreaming of my sweet,
dead friends.
The bees buzz and bang
in their madness, dizzy
in the shrinking light,
perhaps wondering as I do
if they have loved carelessly,
if they’ve been blind to the hour,
if what lies beyond the screen
is silence or singing.