It seems we cannot step beyond the everyday.
The line moves slowly but persistently, it sways
in the traffic’s breeze, blown toward me and then
away. The child tells me she wants to go quietly,
minding her own business. Out walking she may
wait to cross the street until the everyday
is swept up from the curb. “We work to earn our leisure
and leisure has only one meaning—to get away
from work.”* That leisure is a critique
of the everyday makes pleasure a snake
coiling itself closer by coiling away.
Sweet honeybee, I’m sorry you died stinging me.
You left your intestines behind, but I’ll cradle them
for awhile. This is radical autonomy
where the self isn’t served, but the community.
Automatically, your lost barbed lance kills you.
But me, cursing, momentarily reddened and itchy.
Sophocles said the dead, collectively,
sound like a swarm of bees. My swollen finger
barely bends to make the poem. Won’t my mommy
be so proud of me? Presumably,
the other bees are still making honey.