These days my calves hurt terribly
and the laundry remains so undone
I stink like a car dying into flowerbeds.
Against me, the bees assemble oilslicks.
My face slickens into colors
I fear are too productive for peace.
I can't help thinking the green of this field
is too much like a home to hope for.
To the bees I'll give that much at least
and start walking to meet them, betting one leg by one leg against a bright-dark.