Jon Lavieri

There’s a vortex of bees humming around my skull.
Clock says I’ve only been sleeping a couple of hours.
Something inside me falls off a shelf.
I get up and take pills to quiet the hive,
go into the kitchen and stare out the window
over the sink. Bats fly across the moon. Waiting
for the pills to kick in I watch the dim glow slide
across the leaves as the night rolls over in its sleep.
The silence breaks into pieces I cannot hold.
There are days ahead I know I’ll want to live through
but not which ones or how far apart they’re going to be.
It’s as much future as I’m willing to think about
while the past has too many names and addresses
scrawled on the envelope. The letter inside
is a cautionary tale beginning, To Whom It May Concern.
The bats fly like they don’t know how.
The pills are kicking in but I think about taking more.
Whatever bright creature I have yet to become
is always rising but never weightless.