the sun stains my eyes, rendering them
a useless blur. we drive each other away
with no intention, each body holding a
primal fear of the other.

the birds outside make the heaviest sound,
all throat as they bulge up and call close

the lake empties out, moving gently
on without rush, a ripple now without
cause. the air is hot but thin of meaning.

the world does not bow under the weight
of my understanding. the water fills
back up, dips quick but does not linger.

my eyes have found their use again, granted
clemency by the sun— no thanks to be found

BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; they are a writer—or else the ghost of one. They spend their time asking questions they’ve found to have no answers; excavating the sites of their past; and performing autopsies on themself through writing. They have been published in Crooked Arrow Press, Badlung Press, Opia mag, Revolute Lit, and Half Empty mag, among others. They have work forthcoming from Fifth Wheel Press and Vulneraries Magazine. their portfolio can be found at

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