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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