I like the way they move like honeybees and I like the way that you can feel them breathing. I put my hand in it buzzing safe and warm, a swarm accepting my skin, not stinging, not necessarily lucky either. It’s one thing to be silent and the same to be sleeping when the hand it intrudes on a still body and I vow to pound skulls through the satellites that tie us, and you are not honey hot from the hive for the taking. Folded over on the lawn there, the dirty shoulder wiser than words when they say IT’S OKAY. It’s not.