The bumblebee mourns
among a graveyard of roses
he has loved all summer long.
in gold-banded, furry rugby shirts –
underarmour sleeves pulled
In the work of the world, everything is a poem;
slow petal hinges closing the drowsy flower -
A guttural green sound in the wrecked garden.
Cough of spring earth
clearing its croaked winter
Bumping home on random kerbs of air,
through summer’s glutted, cloying light,