for his skin was incapable

of recollecting the past

as a cloud has no real surface

or the wind a sense of direction

it carried no inkling of

how painful or how beautiful

how data full or deficient

and overall disappointing life is

and he became statuesque

even in his thought

and though he was not dying

a great pity or shame

attached itself to him

the way details of torture

stick precisely

in those minds

who do not delight

in remembering

similarly the memory

of whether or not he had been loved

came out of him occasionally

as the numb glitter of stars does

and he suffered unclearly because of this

as a hiveless bee

might daily collect nectar

from the doom of flowers

is artless or aimless

or in other words a burden

when the honeycomb is done

when its suffocating corridors

are emptied of relatives

and lined with oozing echoes

left only with only his existence to hum

he gathered yellow packages

from daylight lily suns

and attached them to his legs

bright sacs of light pollen

that shed as he walked

and felt a sense of satisfaction

so unwarranted as to make him

blink back tears

knowing nothing good as gold

was written in the cards for him

no matter how warmly he flew around or buzzed