293

BEE RIG

Narrow worries cling to the lode.
My breathing hestitates, and
The second-person of certain incidents
Uses up its last warmth.
Some would have one be conscious
Always, some go to the store
When being at home is lurid
White smiles, some say love
Has in common with work
The quickening of concentration.
The scaffolding with concertina wire.
Birds land on it and weeds shoot up.
I notice these things ten years from now.

Hey there doggie!
Whatcha got there!