I was silky with sweat and dizzy
after walking up the steps cut out
of the grey rock – two thousand I counted –
so I thought it was just me, my head
spinning, when I saw what I could see
of his skin glistening like a honeycomb
of gems.
Then, as I stopped and stood still,
I noticed all the polished stones shifting,
a pattern like a kaleidoscope,
its mosaics shades of black and gold – amber,
tiger’s eye, jet. And was it, yes, furred,
or winged? This man’s body was crawling
with bees and he just sat on his verandah
and smiled.
As we talked about how he’d found
himself there and chosen what he said
was choicelessness, setting aside his fear of bees
and the sting of being alone, I saw how
that looked, how precious its colours. I saw
the bees come to sip his nectar, heard their
murmurings behind his quiet words.