The sea is tired and the sky above seems runny
while on the shore of the sea
humans swarm like bees;
you’d think the slow waves were made of honey.
Inland, mile by mile, the leaves seem to glow
with the lime leaves’ piercing greens
which is only the sun’s gleam,
and neither the trees nor the sun even know.
The bees themselves patrol the streets
and they are the only ones.
Even down to the concrete, the world is sweet;
down to the marrow of its bones.
Its secretive souls need not be discreet
when the humans have all either hidden or flown.
Samuel W. James’ poems can also be found in Allegro, The Eyewear Review, The Fortnightly Review, Dissident Voice, The Literary Hatchet, Amsterdam Quarterly, London Grip, Clockwise Cat, Peeking Cat, Sentinel Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, Door is a Jar, The Beautiful Space, Elsewhere Journal and Ink, Sweat and Tears.
Foxglove Journal 