Press your Words on my Chest
And string a Quartet on my Tongue;
I’ll be dreaming of an ivory Horse
To ride through your Airs
And drifting between the Ceiling,
No wire Fence to suspend my Escape,
Taking Joy in leaving this buzzing Chase
Between Bees who fail to demonstrate
Where the Pesticide stings
And breaks their begging Knees.
Make them as sparse as Drops in the Sand,
The Prisoners beneath my shifting Feet
Begging for release to no metal Bars;
What’s there to say through the Buzz?