“Bled like honey”

Bees burrow bruised
entrées to bodies,
dripping in dew juice;
like succus plowed maggots
fawning the corkscrewed
flesh of a bullet hole.
But they are merely
bees on a fallen peach,
recovering what has not rot.
Sucking at this sinewy ruby pit,
I imagine it my own backbone.
The bees don't care about me,
so much
as I mind my tap dance.

narrative poem written on 09-19-2013 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem

SHARE THIS POEM!

- Remove line breaks