Bee Morris

My figment was a fig: as in to be eaten

So much we cannot know by now is apparent

                Much to backrub, to listen from

The gore that makes this form a holiday

Have planted stone fruit in my universe

of things for safe- & beauty-keeping

            Regardless the droplet

A moonman is safe in a mountain

                            & triangle’s alight

Only what broadness is to size

Pensive stain

on the collar of the world’s workshirt

as war-torn as every photograph

you don’t look tired in— 

The genetic data of roses makes them beautiful

Meanwhile a purple cloud is saying nothing

to a pink cloud except

                            “I love you in this color tonight.

                             In this awesome wind.”

Bee Morris writes and lives in South Florida. Their published work can be found in Poet Lore, Underblong, Landfill, South Florida Poetry Journal, VIBE, Hobart, Wax Nine, and elsewhere.