The bee-boy， merops apiater， on sultry thundery days
filled his bosom between his coarse shirt and his skin
with bees——his every meal wild honey.
He had no apprehension of their stings or didn't mind
and gave himself——his palate， the soft tissues of his throat——
what Rubens gave to the sun's illumination
stealing his fingers across a woman's thigh
and Van Gogh's brushwork heightened.
Whatever it means， why not say it hurts——
the mind's raw， gold coiling whirled against
air currents， want， beauty？ I will say beauty.