My hexagon’s long gone out.
The wax we stole off petticoats and
Barnacles liberated from the hulls of boats
Turned honey from the stress; fermenting
There, amongst the mess of our salty wares.
And
It wasn't long before the bee’s came drifting,
Pollen ridden beggars with empty bowls worn
Like terracotta crowns, souls freed from their
Geometric cells—And Love, that howling beast,
Not content to ring one lonesome bell, rather
An
Orchestra of buzzing offbeats. Chimes
Let resonate to some queen frequency,
A cheesecloth hive; a makeshift bag of tea.
Let it steep—Just be— Aware of the metaphor
That can be drawn between you and I:
A
Honeycomb kingdom of orderly
Disorder. The halls composed of sound:
A knock-knock-knocking rain. A circle coming
‘round. A muse, the notion of patterned chaos:
The fluid markings of Jade; rigid wood grain.