The winter bee

The winter bee kissed me 
in my sleep. I woke up 
dreaming of yellow wings. 

I stepped out into 
the rain. The wings 
fluttered—a thousand shame. 

The usual wait, the usual route. 
All the while 
the wings did buzz. 

I continued to feel 
the sting 
even after the bus set off. 

From the window 
high above, the streaming 
wonder of the streets; 

the ghosts of 
past temple fairs; 
the endless parade

of men and cars. By now, 
the kiss is but a print, warm 
to the touch, part of

the clock—
I remembered—
I forgot.

Dale Chou
2018-01-29