Saturday, October 13, 2012

The bee has turned the nectar into honey

The bee has turned the nectar into honey
and built a sweet religion. The maroon rose
has thorns, the doe in the pasture is the prey

of men. I buzz about her lilting pose
and smell the pollen of an exposed girl
in lingerie. Her shirt falls in a loose

way over shoulders, her golden-blonde hair curls
in wavy strands. I am the dormant storm
that lurks on the horizon, the soft-white pearl

of her eye peeks out. I have beheld the form
of gods, the fury of a vigilant prayer
and the shape of rising breasts. Her flaxen arm

extends within the sleeve, her back's thin valley
shows her spine as a corridor of honey.

No comments:

Post a Comment