Contributor: James Robert Rudolph

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We are bees
careening in blossoms,
ecstatic as Sufi dancers.
Narcotically we thrust ourselves
through pink and red and blue cups,
lissome as Achilles.

We are high summer,
there’s time,
and we are an afternoon in June.

But it’s September now,
it’s late, the sun suspiciously
low--I noticed that. But
the sky is still blue enough,
for today, tomorrow too.

In a gust
harsh and surprising,
that’s how it will happen, quick,
and we’ll be moving on.


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