I sit in a body & think of a body, I picture
Burnens's hands, my words
make them move. I say. Plunge them, into the hive,
& his hands go in. If I said.
Put your head inside,
he would wear it. Think of my body, every day
the same chair, angled
thus, Burnens
every day, think of his body, think of
a hive, each bee, each thought, the hive
brims with thought. Move it into shade, I think,
& the body moves to shade. Whose
fingers, which word, each surges
from inside my head, but always returns
as Burnens.