WEBVTT

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Swarm.

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Bees from a cleaved
hive dive skyward,

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draw upon the raw October air.

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A hair shirt, a turret, a
plague doctor masked thereof.

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A single modest opera
glove and a clove

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of garlic in a starlet coat.

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Oh, but when the wind its
gusts gets in an uproar,

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that glorious swarm explodes.

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Grows thin, explodes again,
and in an Autumn's dimming

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is mistaken for some mist.

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A wisp.

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A wasp of smoke.

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