I'm not sure about other poets because I've fallen behind on my fiction and poetry reading, but I read through recent poems and found this one.
The disappearance of honeybees has perplexed their eaters and anaphylactics alike
as now only wind jostles créped blossoms, as
furry bodies maybe burrow into the wadded folds
of a colony lost to maps. Nature abhors
a vacuum, they said, and cicadas
persecute a silence.
Polaroid the honeycombs
in the countryside of memory, innocent and
crystalline. Collect your tools, or borrow some:
Make this accumulation personal. Remember
to bring tiny
spoons stored in marsupial apron
pockets. Scrub your underarms and kneepits
with crisp baby's breath, clothe yourself in
butterleaf, a favorite, and
pancake your body with the yellow dust.
Strike out on fields for sweet
and bitter. Stretch into the cloud
of vaporous insects that remain, the hexagon
specks of their bodies buzzing, still, like
an echo of the last known antibacterial afternoon.