Under a polished sky

Above the funky, tidal sea

Mixing with lake water

In a froth

Through a fog

Following me here.

My bee.

We were the couple.

Destined.

Black slacks.

A beautiful, magenta bonnet.

 

As I recall, the locks were closed, filling up

With a stew of green milieu.

And there was a bridge

A small, metal catwalk to cross and meet you under all that glorious sun

Where I am reticent to possess you.

Who am I to lay claim to this elegant, tall, cream-skinned

Archetype, which through the eyes, on sight, doth trigger the sublime?

You smile.

 

Another bridge.

 

I see the happiness in your eyes

It ensnares me, and I feel like a bee trapped in clover

Covered with sweet pollen, nectar and hope.

 

And suddenly,

We are holding hands.

And I think you are saying something about fate.

And chemicals. And the animals within us – perfect, clear-eyed tigers

In lust–enshrouded in particles,

And forged in the hearts of stars. 

 

In fact, you say these

Are the very ingredients

Which creates the musk

And the peasouper, and the madness of love

Only to tear it apart

And reassemble it, once again.

 

Here.

 

Today.

The fog lifts.

For now.

And that charm, or sass, or whatever the hell it was

Is now that bee. 

A reminder of our perfect day.

 

This poem and more found here: HERE in “A Cartographer,” by Antonio J. Hopson.