To the Litten Tree
Morning sees droplets
of spittle flicked over foraging insects.
Down hind legs,
hidden among the leaves,
the sated dump fresh honeydew and
trees weep sugar.
Sweet hurt.
Little graces matter.
The bus drivers know us, let us
smoke by the door.
All summer automatic exits remain
open, and no one leaves or boards.
No cause to,
nor place to go.
In an absence of floral cues
we took unconventional routes,
buzzed lightly to the warm perch
of our terminal branches.
All summer, paralysed bodies
of drunken bees laid glitter paths
for you and I to follow, gasping,
under the silver limes.
Adam Flint was born in North London and currently lives in Berlin. Previous poems have appeared in Shearsman magazine, Black Box Manifold and Poetry Salzburg Review, among others. In 2022 an album, Seen Through Cirrus, in collaboration with The Cube of Unknowing, was released on the Irish label Fort Evil Fruit.