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This Is the Bee, the Honey, the Wax

I do not dip my hands in wax
to smooth, to soothe over 
the errors in judgment 
my elbows clipped stern 

and into place like a baby
out of tune, grand &
swept across a sidewalk 
in the city.

The city, the urban 
urbane city is only 
a glow over hills
that could be coals

left over from the fire
we lit to burn away
the infected hives. 
The last bee left 

was the Queen Bee,
bereft with her brood. 
Collapsed. Honey,
hand me a whiskey. 

This farming the farm
is not for the weak-hearted.

Posted 01/19/15
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