When we were in the story, a moss, like feathers

blessed our feet where we walked. When

we were in the story, I wore your jockey shorts

and nothing else. The a-words came down like rain

that we licked, over-licked: ambivalence, ant, Apollo, arch,

& ask. Your words told me I was beautiful, and horny, smart and

sweet. Noon transpired and still we stayed in the cove licking,

over-licking. Sun bedraggled the feathered moss, everything plain

and real, then the bees’ overture. When we look back

on the story, we may watch it change—the a’s were not said aloud,

I was horny, but not sweet enough. The bees had already

pearled into death. The cove collects its moss, co-exists

with the story—sometimes inhabited by humans,

sometimes storyless, accruing a’s: acid, allegory,

apocalypse, amens.

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