A born-again hornet gets saved
in the walls of your skin,
infesting you with its fate.
It's not enough to flush
your system with repellant,
to preserve it in amber,
to drown out the buzzing
by storming your muscles
with aches and expectations.
You must listen
for the distant rally,
for the acoustic theremin,
for the trembling
falsetto of your pillow.
It's not enough to lie
with the deeds of the day.
The deeds of days drifting
like clouds through your
big blue existence,
you must lie with them also.
A swaying branch,
determined to poke out
the eye of the storm,
holds on for its life.
Nestled between teeth
of raging timber,
holding dear to the dream
of becoming a nest.
We rage and pray
toward our best existence.
It is enough
to tuck a smile in the shade
when the north star drifts astray.
The appointments
that just can't be made,
the milestones unshatterable,
the tremors in your blood
when the hornet first pierces
the skin you could've sworn
was bulletproof.
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