I wanted the bees to die
and meanly, for having broken
in the house. I did it
with hairspray, freezing
their wings midair. And they fell
stunned, scattered across the hardwood.
Cereal-like.

You asked Do you think bees
have a word for everything?

You mean like a word for stiff
wing, the stuff they fell through
before hitting the floor?

Yes. No.

You boarded a train.
I swept up the dead
bees. Wondered at the word
austere. I don’t know
where to put the bed
anymore. Wonder if there’s

a love so official
it can’t be spoken, words
having frozen in the presence of it.