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.