Looking down:
Ten tilting toes
And two stories.
Trimmed lawn.
Looking up:
Some blue solid sheet above the roofs,
Cut by a white flash,
And I slight my eyes.
My hands stick to the wooden strips
Like a T.
Between the roots of my hairs
And the creases in my fingers,
Honey curls inside itself.
One bee, five bees.
They circle round my aching ankles,
Up my shaking knees,
And into my half-tied shirt.
Their flapping wings against my blossoming flower.
They march up the back of my neck,
The tune-- a shrill bravado.
The shaking assault of a shimmering shriek
Slides my hands from safety,
Leaving a sweat-stained residue
And a piercing scream.