I think in terms of bumbling bees, our hive a city—
London city, his city, the city [I can’t help but to think of him always]
where he exists in me, the city where I might what to be, full-
faced and flush across from him at a table with a beer.
London city, his city the city [I'll have a cider, but he wants his Guinness.]
by the end of the night we might not feel it so vividly, but we are alive.
I face the sun; flush, golden. Across, he stares over the rim of his beer.
In his arms each night, I might think that I am the center of the world,
by the end of the night we might not feel it so vividly
but we are alive. In his arms that night I might think that I am the center of the world,
that the earth revolves around me, that the buzzing revolves around me. We make honey in the dark the covers tented a top us, just the two of us. I wake up with honey dried and peeling
from my thighs, waxing, making me soft. Again, I feel it, though coordinates prove me wrong, for a second I believe I am the center of the world. But more accurately, I am only the center of mine.