january and we sleep under bruise-light / and the wasps
smuggle themselves between the panes of my double glazing
and die. i’ve spent the new year living honeycombed
which means my thoughts are turning geometric—/
/—which means i want to hold very still and fill with honey
or some other reminder of summer. or to exist outside of time
and watch hollow wasps gather mouthfuls of dust like pollen
if pollen could exist in wasp-limbo between window panes.
in in-between spaces between seconds or windows or sleeping
and not i imagine sand dunes / i imagine a graveyard for wasps
where erosion is a kind of mourning. here is where we bury
thumbnail-wings and old sunlight and glass-shard-stings
and wait for time to pull them apart. forget how to think
in hexagons / and move. the wasps were dead from the start.