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for his skin was incapable
Eden Mulholland
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of recollecting the past
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as a cloud has no real surface
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or the wind a sense of direction
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it carried no inkling of
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how painful or how beautiful
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how data full or deficient
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and overall disappointing life is
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and he became statuesque
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even in his thought
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and though he was not dying
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a great pity or shame
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attached itself to him
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the way details of torture
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stick precisely
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in those minds
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who do not delight
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in remembering
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similarly the memory
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of whether or not he had been loved
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came out of him occasionally
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as the numb glitter of stars does
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and he suffered unclearly because of this
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as a hiveless bee
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might daily collect nectar
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from the doom of flowers
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not knowing such sweetness
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is artless or aimless
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or in other words a burden
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when the honeycomb is done
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when its suffocating corridors
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are emptied of relatives
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and lined with oozing echoes
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left only with only his existence to hum
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he gathered yellow packages
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from daylight lily suns
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and attached them to his legs
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bright sacs of light pollen
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that shed as he walked
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and felt a sense of satisfaction
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so unwarranted as to make him
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blink back tears
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knowing nothing good as gold
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was written in the cards for him
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no matter how warmly he flew around or buzzed
