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A yellow veil dropped down at evening, and when it lifted everyone was gone Good mothers fled their young for parts unknown— no ‘fall dwindle’ but a stillborn spring Hive beetles and wax moths came not near   Collapse, disorder, all these words were said, while nursery rhymes and jingles went unsung Come witch hour, the old red telephone rang: You had noticed that if you moved, you bled I was your keeper, sleeping through my watch   Infection wraps itself around your bones and whispers you all kinds of bad advice about the fragile strangeness of a life Your body now a hive whose bees have flown Husband! Call them back