Reading Plath in Early April

 

 

The bees gallop—no, that’s not right—the bees

won’t stray from—the bees’ astonishing delay—the bees

 

turning back—the most perfect passage—they take

place, I mean, in the world as it thickens—they have

 

their way—misdirection, like spring, is a turning—the bees

in each firm beginning—the bees loom, stub—the bees—

 

every indiscretion—the bees render—twisted into hollowed

tree trunks, in nests underground, we find them always

 

when we least expect to—the bees look alike—bend the branch

down to set them reeling—they know no better—their

 

stinging is solitary work—the bees’ every single note—

the hive is a circuit board—the bees, as a child I thought

 

the bees, their stingers, could stitch, make small leaps up

or down my arm, plunge plunge plunge—the bees, though,

 

sputter through—the eye is most ours when shut—the bees

find all they want—come with me—they collapse too.