in the shadow
Of the flower
Is the sting

The bee driven by need
Uses its painful gift
To keep its sense of beauty
In proportion

It does its job with
A thoughtless dedication
Its honeyed world
Excites no inner space

Bees are not poets
Who wade through words
With too much brain
Around their ankles

Each itching bee-part
Is attuned
To a cosmic web
Each buzz miraculous

Flowers put powder
On their private parts
To call the bees in
It seems a good game

Much fumbling and the bee
Goes home to mother
Rewards ripple outwards
To many dripping tongues

Bees hate anything
That gets in the way
The bee-world is exclusive
Aliens – keep out

Bees live on a knife-edge
Between honey
And a ripped-out sting
Violation propels them

In the shadow
Of the nectar
Is the horror

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