As foretold, all the island
is made of brightness:
a curved honeycomb,
a feverish brain
cast from its skull.
I’ve come for cleansing.
The bees crawl into my ears
to begin their work.
They burn inside me
like many stars,
and all the tiny tombs
inside me open,
and each chamber
is lit clean, shaking
with the island’s wordless
reverberation.
The bees leave one
honey-bead on the roof
of my mouth:
a thought
from me. Each atom
begins again.
Except for this one,
this black speck
still in my eye,
like your pupil
in the sunlight
in the last room
you entered:
I remember.
You saw me.