Tapping on the glass like a telegraphist,
Bee mines at cloud that will not chip,
her puffy head in fruitless googling.
It does not translate. The outside
is resin, resulting in zero- an ice cube,
her boat at the walls of the studio.
Bee is aghast. Her leggings stuck
fat with sherbert, urgent on the sill
in her stillness. The fighter plane hinges
through an impossible expanse, vicious
with freedom. The world enfolds the practice.
He is insatiable- a garden of need.