One day in late July, when the mirage
of five
o'clock in the afternoon
still looms
a huge droning
honey bee
might be the only
one who's not dreaming—
moving outward
from the center, he endeavors
to scour
the entire fortune
of the lone sun-
flower
emerging from
trilling tufts of wild dill—
there, at the still point
of the swift-turning
universe, at the realest
place in existence,
spitting and sucking,
he makes the world.
