How little say I’ve felt for having
with the world these days. Some
conversation, muddled up like tin
at a shooting range.
            Do you think he can hear
what anyone else is trying to say?

Here’s some dirt to pull from
for honey, a beehive to be stung
and wrung empty by his hands.
So I far and then wandered here

wherever here may be, and nicely
was it to be anything. Alive and not alive,
only two speeds as far as I can tell.