You may speculate how all of this got here. The poet holding hands with the writer feeling the earth with borrowed toes from the west. The traveler gauging the air as though it could be made of steel and one must be careful of harsh edges cluttered within oxygen inhales. You may miss interrogation’s tongue tickling the back of your throat and engaging with the forgotten wax in ears. High pitched inquiry still exists but it is dim. It is dim. That bee exists for you and it exits its sweet onto your shoulder because you lack the nectar that once grew near. And when that bee flocks toward another on a Sunday or closer to Autumn, you may miss its sting. Try to forget its remnants caught in your temporal bones or its fumble into your muscular dystrophy. You cannot see thirst. You cannot touch hunger. All those bite marks are reminders of the invisible one(s).