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The best remedy for the mind is love and work
—Freud

7 am. Bees attack the open
wound of the grapes, will not relent,
return to a slit in the weatherboard
to hive the wall. Begin again.
I return from the Anima Mundi of dream
inhabit the old hive of the body.
If words make this seem a sure place
between the wounds of life and dream
they are wrong, there is no place.
I return to day that is corporal
seized by habits
that I repeat, repeat like prayer.
What is the life-force, but faith …

At heart, builders.
Build where we dare not
be alone, unable to believe
that the life-force is faith.
Build up image after image
the assumption of history,
genes, molecules, our daily lies
interlocking
before the rapid
shatterwork of lives.

This is what we possess:
to see, plan, expect,
without answer — everywhere the
consummate paradox:
bees filling with comb
for generations
the stinging point of stasis.
On the ground laden with blossom
bees dying,
the hive spinning on.
Not love but work enough
the hum of live machines.
But what is being built? What
has the heart to do before it dies?

I turn again to the poems.
Still come the thousand shocks
flesh is heir to, the old pain
of created things.
Store up
heat filling the day,
and light filling the single
divided room. A vague
gold in the heart
every minutest act
interlocking faith’s
imperfect storm.
Somewhere build, somewhere fill
the unseen comb.

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