At dusk, the Roman mob of bees
sleep in their wooden city
before Augustus makes it marble
licking out their queen to free her
from her edible cage of wax,
so that she can be their matriarch.

In a milky gray sky, tall trees
are temples of attentive leaves
that sway in a trance of devotion
to the far-off constellations
of fast approaching night-crowned stars
who died long ago before the gods.

By the old fence, in their new Rome,
sleeping workers know nothing of
stars, but will be woken by the sun.