Apitoxin
The moment floats, its focus uncharted,
He here and I unmasked like candy in sun.
I fish out excuses to bridge the force,
But excuses too are seared and long-lived,
Excuses slashing life as life’s counterpart.
Still, I fall in the valley. The standstill
Stills all sweat—lines, curves, crevices—
Like stumbled bruises on the beaten path,
A small dam where the hand burns and pulls.
If six roses align in the neon pasture horizon,
I could imagine them as my outlet
Toward a path on the opposite of excuse:
Excuses clothed, excuses stripped, excuses kept.
A firm hand that meets points to joints.
With excuses, I can imagine what’s next
To know. With the excuse, of course.
I am in the calefaction of the situation,
It’s endowed, well endowed, with its knowledge,
It’s dance, on the hard peak of its comfort.
Of course there’s no other way. Of course not.
Side to side the bee comes and departs
From one rose. I look down to touch
The feel of sting: exhausted, worn,
A stem limp from a days work.
While I look, the bee does not return. Ever.
These are excuses when a reason is more than excuse
Or excused action: chocolate swimming in taste buds,
Medicine, amending, all reason being filled
To hear: an excuse.
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