Dead Bumblebee on the Driveway If my hand No longer under my control Someone somewhere else Choosing For me What my hand Creates Caresses The other hand pulls honeybees from my hair If my eye What will I be Allowed to see? What will I be required To turn Away From I can hear the yellow jacket Pounding itself on the Bedroom window But can't look Can't lift the sash If heart Now in unfamiliar rhythm Granting and denying Blood From this chair I can just hear Squash bees Singing zucchini Singing pumpkin Can just hear them For now
Our Own Times Season of wind ticks over Change Transformation Blurry membranes between Poems Identities Differences we will identify as difference Differences that are not difference Allowed to be you if You are like the children in the books Or so they say and They will choose the books And we who are designated different We find the places to meet one another Find the things that we knew all along In dream or in poem We find each other In our own definitions Our own times
