I’d say it’s toiling air, high up here;
steep with bees, and the beacon sun
overlapping light, close to sundown.
Come to collect bees, our hive in parts.
Compound of fencing, stands of nucleus hives.
He just wears a veil, this farmer, no gloves
and lifts open a dribbly wax-clogged
We in our whites mute with held breath.
Drops four frames into our silence.
The air is like mica
ancient with thin flecks;
distance viewed through a filter of thousands.
I am observed.
Each box has the pulsar of its source. Porous with eyes
we wait in the spinning sun. The light is Medusa,
sugar of frayed threads; a mesh, a warp-field, all
the skin of our heads.