oh my sweet honeybee

No talking in the grass, only persistent scars
where cheek lay to hear
a sound: the distilled conversation

of minute barbed legs, fiddle bow to fiddle.
No movement on the pond surface—
water slurring its beaded lining, blunted tapestry

of black and blacker, brown and tan. No talking
on the part of two dogs engaged
in chase and turn, alike under coats

wet dun and spotted damp, the heart’s steady
hiccough under layers of fascia, muscle, rib.
Hands spill the pond water. Nothing can be grasped.

Why indelible hunger? Why insatiable need?