i. The Bell
Three monks stand inert beneath their robes.
Stone bodies that refuse to face forward.
Toward the call to supper. The church
Steeple spies them from a forest corner.
The leaves dissolve unsketched. To dust
That the bees scatter. Patterns of flight.
Their hive undone. Keepers with cobwebs
For faces. Tree trunks newly severed.
Just the fingers exposed (also cloaked).
Prying open the hive. One body leans
Hard against the lid. Barrel of honey-
Comb slanted in sleep. The machine
Growls at the thief. Bells no longer.
More than greed tips over the basket.
In a little while, the bees are glazed
To the earth. The grass also bowing.
ii. The Machine
The brook spins through the water mill.
Momentum tuned to the swarm. Both
Remain concealed. One chest
And two arms clutch the hive. Honey
Unsteadies the man. Rolls its weight
In a gesture of upheaval. The bees (displaced
Inside) gather to the center. The engine
Of their anger gaining volume. Panic.
The keeper’s flagging strength resists.
He employs his bulk. Each step slumped.
The ground here also uneven. Whole
Patches of weeds lie as traps. Big enough
To trip a man lodged in indecision.
His uncertain posture starts his feet
North. His head clearly east. The hive
Also sets to twist off the canvas. Slip
Past the keeper’s gaze. Uncaptured.
iii. The Basket
The look-out maintains his perch. His legs
Wrapped around a tree trunk. One supports
The other without a hint of embrace.
A steeple chimes. The quiet below shifts weight.
Even the roads are clear: no one prevents
What each suspects. The drapery of the men
Folds in. The bees all but invisible. No room
For speech. Only objects moving objects.
What is done to the hives is also done
To their keepers. Lurking for gold. Refusal
To age. Symptoms of hibernation.
The men are weighed down. The hives asleep.
Both absorbed in attitudes of stealth. Private
Fancies betrayed in their feet. The buzz
That wings leave behind. No one bothers
To restore. To upright. To empty the mine.
