Sleeves of worker bees harvest your arms.
You are not sweet;
you only want to belong.
The river runs in; there
crossings are made. The river runs
in greys and in browns. Some days
an inky-blue paisleys the brown;
the lake, drenched in places
by sky, shot silk.
Bees busy your neck. They sing
into your ears. Untutored,
you cannot decipher what’s meant.
Where the river flows in, the gap
enters history, the opening
where sun collapses from day.
Though you know nothing
of bee song or currents, lac maternal
does not let you drown.