I've tarted it up in an inappropriate title, but it's got to have a title. This one admits poetry's apiaries all belong to one person --but what am I gonna do? I'm the bee guy. Besides, when the Poet Tyrant sees it I'll never have another chance to write anything, let alone bad poems. Here you go:
CAN THESE BEES NOT BE EMILY'S?
The bees of a slow world do not buzz;
The whirring of their wingspans isn't wind;
The honey of slow bee, though sweet,
The sweetness is itself enough to eat;
The sweetness of a beesting isn't sleep:
It is loss and it is longing. It is heat.
In the slow world we don't speak;
We don't remember, we don't know
Where we have been.