Honey Stains
The hive across my living room window
is diverse in its formlessness.
A bee takes a wrong turn
under indigo skies,
leaves honey stains
on my chartreuse walls.
I say wrong turn because Ma says wrong turn,
but the element of wrongness is subjective
when God’s deeds are supposedly infallible.
Though ineffable. What purpose does a bee seek
when leaving honey stains on walls?
Camaraderie? Or dominion?
Tomorrow, the hive will be gone.
I will watch bees swirl into clouds
emulating Van Gogh.
Drying honey stains
will resemble my love stains
on aloof hearts.
Negotiating with the Moon
Half the apartment
is soaked in moonlight.
The mahogany of my bedpost—
an Oreo dipped in skimmed milk
—is indifferent to my woes.
My admittance into lush fields
valleyed between whispering hills,
where dreams are cultivated
on dandelion seeds is restricted,
gatekept by the moon’s vigilance.
I am unqualified.
I cannot surrender to stillness,
my conscious and subconscious
are caged by faithlessness.
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