You caught me honey-bee I always thought I was a wasp With a grin sting, turning green In the porch light, no, though. I turned out to be a moth with Soft wings, coming off on your fingertips I’m grateful for the bees, he says: You will hive me forever. On those movies It was only the words that turned me: each One an aphotic kelp forest, swirling otters Coming up and over the sweating sun. Antediluvian moments, he used to call them, The seven deluges you carved out in old Display cases, native beads, Asian threads. I realized the honey was mine all along. I swear on summer: the…