Stripped to Bare Stone

I don’t know if
the bees will
rise again.

What if
I give up
the pen—

dump all
I’ve captured
into a two-minute iMovie.

Photographers are thieves
like us. We steal
bodies to reframe

and remind us
of all we cannot know
like those bees

that can shake
pollen off
a flower’s anthers.

As a high rising terminal
climbs up the left margin,
a vocal fry slides down the right.

This is a monotone—
my mantra to the edge
where I wait

for the city and the sea
to bleed

into each other. My wings
beat so much faster
than either of us predicted.

One thought on “Stripped to Bare Stone

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