Scraping

Alone,
the oneness scrapes away
the layers
and layers

and layers of paint
down to the Wood,
where I wait
for the scent of grace.

Could This

(or Bee Poem)

Could this
Wide, bright field be
Wide enough?

It’s dry.
I waved away
the thought.

The grass, too short—
the buildings, old,
but pretty. White.
Green roofs.

The hot, hard sun
Pulsed white
and pulsed again:
Enflamed the air.

Alarmed,
I watched its beams explode
Upon the backs of
10,000 red-golden bees,
the color of his hair.

They arced,
a swelling, backwards S—
a fat, descending snake,
Threatening,
or threatened—
I wasn’t sure,

and all the time
I wanted this to be
enough.

Awake,
I watched the rain washed cars roll past
Like water in a river, sun-splashed,
brushing cool, gray tints across the day.

Maybe
I wasn’t there,
or maybe
I just didn’t write it down.