Careening up the steepest slope
of Big Rock Candy Mountain,
guided only by an apple blossom
whose refusal to designate east
west or time of day or fact of
night or day, concerned only
with the arrival of her lover,
the bee, who appears as
intoxicated as I am,

enough to seriously consider
if I, too, could somehow
contrive to dive into the open
petal and collect a bit of pollen
for my very own in the hope
that a smear of yellow dander
across the top of my forehead
could be enough to re-open
the gate closed by steeple
to me and mine so long ago.

A fool, utter and complete.