A bee was tracing eights above my head.
I wished that it would change into a gnat,
or wished that it would change into a wasp,
and sting me twice.
Oblivion lay just around the edge.
A night lit shadow trailed across its tiles
and crept away behind a wall.
I heard its exhales rule themselves,
nose and shoulder back to nose,
or thought I did.
I did not dream it, that I knew.
Eight times eight I wound my leg
around its hampered hip, but still
my ears were counting.
