T.

Yowza. Bee sting while IN THE CAR
while cruising the back roads behind Nephin Beg
and no relief for miles. Through my jeans,
smack into my quadricep, a sharp hot lancet
of WAKE UP YOU'RE ALIVE. Damn.
Hot damn.

And all around us rhododendrons, a wild
impenetrable thicket just past blooming:
remnants of purple, acres and acres.
And always that light, that swept-clean glint.
Sheep in the road, not anxious to move,
no rush for anything. Certainly not us.

Later on, a stop at the Healy Hotel in Pontoon,
on the shores of Lake Conn, Paul with his pint
of Guinness and I with my new favorite repast:
black tea with milk.

And I'm still cursing that bee.