They Know

"They know." I say.



"Who?" They ask me.


I turn.



They're always

there.



"They're watching." I say.



"Who?" They ask me.



I can't

tell them


anything.



I don't know


what they


know.



I want them


to know,


that I know,


that they know,


even if I still don't know.



"Why do they know?" They ask.


"I don't know." I say.


They're finally gone,

for once.



"Who are they?" They ask.


I don't know

what they know,

but I do know

they know


what the bees know.