The Apiarist
The Apiarist
Summer had gathered hot stones
and its ancient ache for inferno.
It sparked the chimney hive
into over-drive and in, out
the swarm frenzied at the noon
disc that ticked everything up.
He said he’d wait until evening
business gets good
when the little ones stop surviving.
And slowly the sentries quieten
no order to gather anymore
returning baskets of gold
to the Queen’s gilded bed.
Up the ladder he went, ascending
to a crown of wings, his leathered
legs veined in his smoke churning
blooms of termination.
Spatulating his way into sweetness
the catacombs of syrupy tenure
fell from the walls of brick
and he claimed this empire
smelt like charcoal, a carcinogenic
condiment you might taste once.
As night crowded in slow
darkness licked at the tang
of kerosene and honey
drawing a diaspora into its throat
viscose on bodies of the damned.
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