10/28/2025

Miracle workers’ hands a

buzzwork of messing and fumbling

that golden honey. 

Fly away, little bee,

set yourself a line against

the breeze, float away. 

I should lay away for a while

and practice a craft that makes me happy

while the snow builds

about my humble dwelling,

and I will give due regard to thee

in the courtesy of my missing thoughts

lest time and distance,

the darkness that seeps earlier and later

in a slanted cut against the sky,

untethers us and hinders us

singular to our own concerns,

still then I shall sometimes dream.