According to legend Jupiter  transformed
Melissa, the daughter of King Melisseus, into a bee
so that she could produce honey for him.

I would have expected an owl
with yellow eyes to haunt the air.
Maybe a black muscle of moccasins.
A pig shining like a pink Buddha.

Instead, I spend my days hanging
in this sun-lit pasture, a shadow
dangling from a black oak,
humming like a powerline.

You cannot imagine the awful buzz.
And the honey--enough to make you sick,
the daisies opening their rusted mouths,
the slow drawl of goats.

I despise the cows with their agnostic eyes,
the heretical black map of their backs,
the dull eternity of horses,
their purple tongues licking the air.

If only once I could swarm the sky.
If only once I could drift
across this dusty field
like the black breath of a god.