#142
A bee once flew in my mouth and stung my tongue.
I ran home, had to be told to spit it out
(We all act inexplicably when we're young);
Even at three, fear and pain scar us with doubt.
Years later, in a fountain, I found a dead bee.
I squeezed it with my fingers and it stung me.
Even dead things, I saw, can act vengefully.
The faceless Beekeepers care nothing for insects.
They revere the hive, barely tolerate the queen,
Fear only the mystery that often infects
The males with a fury that can pierce the face screens
They reweave nightly, tighter, tighter, in their dreams.
The godlike man in the tree, stealing eggs from nests,
Ignores the fears of bird and bee, and never rests.
