She keeps the bees.

She remembers

rays of sun like swords

in a drawer.

She is an umbrella,

dangling little umbrellas

from her shells of light

that hold so many electric drums.

She watches the ladies who swear

and wear stiff stilettos

she has a flame like theirs

but keeps it quiet

as a wide awake mouse

or some searching rabbit.

She is the habits of the stars,

transplanted onto Earth

like a reverse moon current

of angelic hair

she makes the whirlpools turn

she brings the thickets to the air

she makes the clock's hands burn

and the blackberries feed the thorn

she makes the raspberries stare.