Poem in Belfast

I woke up this morning & drove through

sheets of molten cloudcover

to talk to a stranger about bees.

She talked about gravity—how founda-

tions in hives are redundant.

She talked about talking to bees, oddness 

        & how it lurks.

I passed through the old new England 

windows—and through blueberry 

        country &

good land for sale—the coffee waitress

had a super high pitched voice

And I imagined her wings moving like


& the heat inside of her. I teetered on the

        brink of worry

then watched the fog burn off, listened to

it return—prayed to the god of gray things


it was crawling out of the comb of this day

It was almost mothers day and I was the

        only man I saw 

I could explain how certain moments re-


in our lifetimes—how loneliness is

billowing brown spores inside

the earth in just such a way

How there is a mathematical precision

       which nature

takes time in unfolding—a system

narrowing somewhere

but I look at the harbor and can’t say for


that I’ll ever know it inside & out

can’t even say where my devotion lies or

whether I will raise myself well with the


No foundation, she said, and I pictured

       time elastic

acting upon us,

watched the fog envelop the town—

there was peace in that,

—water in all living things.

Reiser Perkins

Copyright © 2016, Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.


Peter Kirn currently lives and works on a 16 acre farm in Papaikou, HI.