Bee Line
Maybe the crow flies
straight between here and there, but the bee
does not. What else have we
mis-named? father, mother? rock? tree? Perhaps, two snowflakes
falling, one on East Germany, the other
on West, a hundred yards
apart, were identical. You could watch the one,
easy as a dream, wafting
to just below the Wall’s
jagged surface. Head
over heels? Of course, it is,
all the livelong
day, until, at last, long after the sun has set,
you lie down to tally up
all that’s befallen you, all that’s befallen those
you love. Maybe, one you loved said years ago,
“belie,” and you, again,
misheard it, misread
everything.
A racket persists
outside your window, though the shades are drawn
against the moon, that you may now,
like the many generations
before you, sleep, as they say,
like a baby.
