Neither the blessed bees, nor the Angels of Art
cursed us with this damming disease of gilded glue,
this slow flow of deafening silence, sadness
and slow demise.
I cannot hear your pounding heart, Your love
is muffled and distant like a corner of your heart
abandoned and deserted me for some other
vaguer cause. I am the keeper of the hives,
maintaining sanity through hearing the honey
soft and slowly running
— away
