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Poem	Bees may be trusted, always, to discover the best, nay, the only human, solution. Let me cite an instance; an event, that, though occurring in nature, is still in itself wholly abnormal. I refer to the manner in which the bees will dispose of a mouse or a slug that may happen to have found its way into the hive. The intruder killed, they have to deal with the body, which will very soon poison their dwelling. If it be impossible for them to expel or dismember it, they will proceed methodically & hermetically to enclose it in a veritable sepulcher of propolis & wax, which will tower fantastically above the ordinary monuments of the city. * When we die our bodies powder, our bodies the vessel & the vessel empties. Our dying does not fill the hive with the stench of dying. But outside the world hungers. A cockroach, stung, can be dragged back out. A careless child forced a snail inside with a stick once. We waxed over the orifice of its shell sealing the creature in. And here, the bottom of the comb, a mouse, driven in by winter & lack. Its pawing woke us. We stung it dead. Even before it died it reeked - worse the moment it ceased twitching. Now everyday we crawl over it to pass outside, the wax form of what was staring out, its airless sleep, the mouse we built to warn the rest from us.
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