Improv: WS Merwin "The River of Bees"

I bridged the orange mills fifteen years
ago, a blind man looking on. The singing
goats fell into the rooms and beehives
where I took my eyes after the bottle emptied
images of mouths chewing forkfuls of bees,
we are the reverberation set to bucket-brigade
in a soft room with a
dime-store guitar asking how it will end for
me.
Once once and once she sang of goats and milksop
and burnweed, litigious in her calls. She thinks she
is better than water. I have fallen into my blisters. The
yoke hope proffers is as short as the grass
in the city where I was born. They keep it well
trimmed, only to live.