right hand pointing

Dawn Corrigan

Dead Bees

They fly in and get caught, and die.

I never see the live ones, just corpses,

piles of them on the floor by the window.

I lift them by a wing, one at a time.

They have tidy little bodies, fuzzy

and striped. Their antennae curl in death.

Their legs curl. They died for a larger

enterprise. For that I envy them.