fallen from the lip

bees in a labyrinth of

eyes a throat your opens

shadow slickening on a

sound of speed mask lunar

hysterectomy nauseous at

a door your buzzing salt

scattered in the grass'

insect skin you stumble

through the sand towers

sliding toward the mouth

of waters sleep's three

perfect halves

nod and blaze

Clutching bees in Ivan Argüelles'

“Trinacria”