Yes, we find the shrine—
dot of island, nothing more.
Dust, relic, and hope.
…
Twin hive houses stand
history brailed in landscape.
Relatives unknown.
…
Mud against bee’s sting,
lip already bulb red taut,
gravel roads wring on.
…
When a door opens
hundreds of people climb stairs—
not the Northern Lights.
…
Legs pedal-tired.
Pour us a pint of shadow,
thirsty to be lost.
