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Poem	in the shadow of the flower is the sting the bee driven by need uses its painful gift to keep its sense of beauty in proportion it does its job with a thoughtless dedication its honeyed world excites no inner space bees are not poets who wade through words with too much brain around their ankles each itching bee-part is attuned to a cosmic web each buzz miraculous flowers put powder on their private parts to call the bees in it seems a good game much fumbling and the bee goes home to mother rewards ripple outwards to many dripping tongues bees hate anything that gets in the way the bee-world is exclusive aliens - keep out bees live on a knife-edge between honey and a ripped-out sting violation propels them in the shadow of the nectar is the horror
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