The bee-boy， merops apiater， on sultry thundery days

    filled his bosom between his coarse shirt and his skin

    with bees——his every meal wild honey.

    He had no apprehension of their stings or didn't mind

    and gave himself——his palate， the soft tissues of his throat——

    what Rubens gave to the sun's illumination

    stealing his fingers across a woman's thigh

    and Van Gogh's brushwork heightened.

    Whatever it means， why not say it hurts——

    the mind's raw， gold coiling whirled against

    air currents， want， beauty？ I will say beauty.