1. What did I want but a child’s settling in to the hand holding her own? Jagged people fitting into other jagged people for comfort first, until the key bangers and goodbye wavers grip and the hand, this hand, blossoms out of fist. Do you confront us or simply break in on us? Years it’s taken me to unwrite the story of mourning, written not by hand, but by stick to beat the ground. I built the frames and stocked the hives. I invited you in. But now the bees are disappearing and though I know my own life, feel it gathering in the dark, wait, you say, just you wait. 2. I found I could rest only by moving: no wind but the air from a tire pump to keep me going up and down the steep hills, here and back. By dusk the foraying stain of a tree swallowed one hill then another. I wanted to speak, earnestly converse, but you would not answer my arguments against you. Invisible child, with night coming on, a body cold, head streaming with bees from the hive alight, tree gum sticks to your tongue as you try to shape the rising in the beech in its cycle of foliage. 3. I write letters these days to everyone. – Paul Blackburn I dream a dream as I climb a tree bearded with a cloud of bees. All night the swarm bears down on me, a face I see but cannot see. Not memory, but honeybees, each one clustered in a single cloud like a mosaic. I’m sick and tired, I say aloud, argue that I’m watching my own mind’s electric charge, though another swarm’s forming and by now bees dot my dream, streaming forth in a procession I know through the dark: Ray and Jo and Evie and Bob and Anne and Mark and Allen and Ginny and Cliff and Tom, and Alice—you met her once—Steve’s mom.