Out of the eater
Something to eat
Out of the strong
Something sweet
The bees that made honey
In the skull of a lion
The wasps that bore fruit
In the belly of a fig
Your heart does not beat
but buzz
your lungs hum with life
so rude in the late summer
purple bruise drooping
swollen sacks,
heavy beads of sticky sweat
heady flies find you, if we do not
even in life there is something of rot
your palmed hands try to cover
but here there is no shame
it is your nature
rude
dark
sweet
