Wasp in the Window

You crawl up because that's the way out

of any problem. Because out always implies

light's sting. (Not this one.) At the top, alone,

you can make nothing open, new happen:

the expected air not there to give yourself over to--

Slip, you drop like a dark ripe drupe:

gold-ringed, rust-edged: land on the inside sill again,

the sound of leaf fall, April-loosed.  Then wait, stand:

abdomen lifted at the glass like a drill, face

cast down.  How to resist the insistence freedom is lit,

goes up as it's been taught? Not to use what

wings you may not use inside the hive to find it.

Once nothing quick is coming close, to climb again,

again, deliberate. You clean your legs so the hooks are clear.

The Equipage

That there are bees in my azaleas

despite the news of hives collapsing.

Begin again:  branches of hot pink feathers,

fistfuls of fluted champagne, each

a barndoor open for the horses’ return;

inside: the smell of oats, of sugar waiting.

Let winter be over, the careful tethering

of hope.  No room for tears among these shriners

and their tiny circling vehicles.  The bees

are in the dresses of the desperate debutants,

hearing bells, imagining candles lit for

Easter, each orange shrine a miracle.

Meanwhile, a tiny map of Pittsburgh etching itself

inside them, a dance to return with.

Among the white and green pantaloons

of the blueberry bushes, a nudge will open,

a tongue will flash forward.  So the oranges grow,

the peachfuzz depends on, the cherries sing about

before they harden.  So during a time of war,

the heart finds a strange mercy still,

a tiny hat, a gold coat full of messages.

Sunglassed, humming, complicated mouths

full of pins, forks, kazoos, full of implements,

these hungry priestesses imitate the bear

that would eat them, that gives them reason,

that steals their drunk.  Then off to answer

riddle with koan, to plumb the morning glories;

like tiny cattle, they beat the fleshy silks into batter.

They fall upon them like rain, their transistors

turned up full for the carrying on, away.

Begin again:  bring wheelbarrows for the hell of it.

It rubs off.  Bring the horses to harness,

unwrap the footmen—