In the garden of real

endangered bees

poke pin feet

in the sticky sweat

of bloom, servicing

forces persistent

and seen at right distance.

like frame of mind they’re

everywhere breezes flow,

strolling the points

of grass, rolling

into air we sip ignorant

then drown in, indifferent.

in the garden of real

sick bees rally,

burrow deep, come

up full, dragging pollen sacks

like mail bags

and happily drunk

in the passion of work

and their queens never know

how each has sucked

flower to flower

lilac and thistle both

braving all birds

and kittens in the overgrowth.

in the garden of real

deposits overflow

again and again

as false worlds recede

while we in them bleed

out the blood we’d

forgotten we grow.