i tire of depicting mouths
that open and close like French doors: i
bore of predicting the churlish traipse
of tongues that lick themselves like
i fear that life might not be enough
and that honeybees might leave their hours
of careful construction—pick up their tarsi
and vacate the premises, leaving their
honey fractals hollow.
i worry about words and running out of them,
and about a future
(that was actually just this afternoon)
where i will only be able to describe things
in twos and threes.
i worry about