In ragged fields
foregrounding latticed
electricity pylons,
honey bee drones
flit industriously
between rusty sunflowers,
sweet clover, snap-
dragons, wild
foxglove, and marigolds;
hardly noticing anything pretty
about their workplace scenery—
they are too busy
hauling the sticky,
messy effluvia, spiriting away
all they can hold
off to the dank
furtive folds
of their own incommodious comb—
to vomit and then re-consume,
spit and fan, again and again,
compressing into waxen tombs
one spartan
cube at a time—
of something
they weren't designed
to understand—nuggets of food
fit for old gods.
