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The hive is a giant
nose. See how communes sense
the queen’s elation:
that mystic history of honey.
Today I hum, yellow,
rehearing your laughter
waxing in carnation.
Because you know me
down to my peeled feet.
Because your lashes furl
in subtlety. I know
no utopia is
what it seems, but oh,
this sweetness smells clean
