After Claudia Rankine
We are not supposed to use the fire escape but
here I am on the roof. Skyscrapers rise, monochrome,
small buses tilt on the bridge and cross the river.
Offices stack below me, tasks undone, but up here
no-one owns the atmosphere, not one breath of it.
Along the edge there’s a row of potted rosemary,
thyme and mint and boxy, man-made hives for bees.
I observe them reanimate after winter, plug back into
the world’s organism. They float out and taste spring on
their tongues, dance to signal new-found nectar.
Sun sweeps my eyelids, the bees hum. If we want
we can stretch out of ourselves and into every
living thing.
