i. High Tea

On being served ephemera:
Spot more?
No thank you yes please.
               (sotto voce: Quickly—)
ii. More Singing Underneath

The table is covered with paisleys embroidered
with tongues of flame that look like sperm.

What of it? Once I sat at a table where
somebody served me 
a plate of sex. A nice one.
I tasted

Mellifluous, apis,mine own honeybee,
will you ever taste me?
I have the sexual parts of plants.

You fatten your cells for a baby bee now
at the edge of the other sea.
Dance a bee dance

in mind how good I smell.
Still, my outcast state
flower’s a forwarding address.

Don’t you think I wear it well,
this red dress, past-tense, old girl
dilemma, this

The Paisley Question Mark
(a mystery by Agathon Christie).
At least I recollect to ask:
O Meno, what is virtue?
Are virtues then a swarm of bees?

Does the eye of the hive have a bee’s eye view?
Which is to say anything but blue—
and many.

Call virtue
beezantine pleasure
petal leisure
fetal embrasure.
Hoard of honey.
Skeins of smoke knit a thought
for a fontanel to cross.
Con a text, shreve a loss.
A-swirm in sperm.
Sutra, a thread of cloth
a cloth of gold 
fiery tongues
silver spoons
and tea grown cold.

That’s the context but it’s all wrong.
It’s talk through my tablecloth hat
from my unattached head:
so far below the salt
I’m under the table.
Even the song
plays dead.

iii. Time Trials

The body is the best mystery.
It wasn’t, then it begins;
it is, then it ends.

One moment, he is my dog then a car
and a perfectly dog-shaped nothing on the road.

When yellow leaves or none or few do hang—
that is now.
This was, too.