LIGHT THROUGH WINDOW ON SCREEN
I cannot begin to escape
obligation, the fevered
juice in a lonely laugh.
There is a soiled replica in the attic,
a soundtrack for the method of coins.
But this is not all.
There's a bee which avoids his injections.
He is safe in a shined glass box,
sleeps through the invention of chairs.
We're afraid together.
Hold hands as if he wasn't a bee.
How can one desert such a thing?
This is why we laugh alone
for you are not magical.
You are not able to recreate
even the outline of a tongue.
You are like vaudeville in a match-book,
the stencil a ghost employs for death.
My bee will not trust you.
Will not take your injections.
Will not laugh at the circus you drain from the clouds.
He is a proud bee, a family bee.
He would never consciously neglect.
Would never deceive.
And yet he is only partly reasoned,
only partly noble in his rage.
Andrew Morgan responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.