Friday, November 7, 2014

Snookered By The Business of Poetry

Should I separate
wax and honey from
the comb to embalm
the black feather and entomb
the golden spoon?

Bee keeping lore says
corpses covered in honey
kept preserved without
a stench until buried.

Old blind Huber mentions
intruding rats stung dead -
encased harmless in wax
by vigilant bees guarding the hive.

I scour away the honey puddled
on my table like amber weeping
from wooden wounds.

I puzzle over toast crumbs
picked up and pressed into the tip
of my middle finger.