You isn’t any under-rush of color
Neither are they
Which is imperfect presence
On sleep’s dark vowels

In oceans where trumpets hide
& You are blanketed in salt
Forests where extinguished
Bees laugh & sway

When you find the weight
Of bees’ dark laughter
Tremble until heaven’s error
Makes you stammer

Write poems in imperfect smoke
Which disappear in dark becoming