Pollen
He speaks to you through the screen
and you watch his lips and lick the words off yours
as if you said them and they begin to drip like honey.
Is it your dream or his?
You each go into your own madness.
You’d rather sleep than walk this crooked road.
But he churns up the gravel
with his coming and going.
You suspect he knew he was planting those seeds,
but you had no clue you were a plowed field
waiting for them.
But what can you do now that the rains have come
and the sun has showered the fields
and the plants are knee high and the bees’ legs
are covered with that dust?
What can you do but tell lies that will keep
this world from calling you sinners?
What can anyone do that will keep liars
from sinning against their own souls?
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