The Bee

The bee buries its memories—
mythic, implanted—
in holographic flowers, 

bells flickering, aquiver with pixels, 	
the red silence of roses 
coming to,

as the bee dives for pollen
(like love restored
by technology, it tastes of honey-

lite, nearly heaven)
antennae tunneling deeper, the bee 
almost actual, alas

its program whistles it back
to the lab, ancestral
thrum—thick, unguent—

still vibrating in its system,
while the garden sleeps in a cloud,
touchless as imagination, 

which rushes in like the kiss
of a boy in spring, or autumnal
illness, to fill a vacuum.