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i. High Tea
On being served ephemera:
No thank you yes please.
(sotto voce: Quickly—)
ii. More Singing Underneath
The table is covered with paisleys embroidered
with tongues of flame that look like sperm.
What of it? Once I sat at a table where
somebody served me
a plate of sex. A nice one.
Mellifluous, apis,mine own honeybee,
will you ever taste me?
I have the sexual parts of plants.
You fatten your cells for a baby bee now
at the edge of the other sea.
Dance a bee dance
in mind how good I smell.
Still, my outcast state
flower’s a forwarding address.
Don’t you think I wear it well,
this red dress, past-tense, old girl
thing dilemma, this
The Paisley Question Mark
(a mystery by Agathon Christie).
At least I recollect to ask:
O Meno, what is virtue?
Are virtues then a swarm of bees?
Does the eye of the hive have a bee’s eye view?
Which is to say anything but blue—
Hoard of honey.
Skeins of smoke knit a thought
for a fontanel to cross.
Con a text, shreve a loss.
A-swirm in sperm.
Sutra, a thread of cloth
a cloth of gold
and tea grown cold.
That’s the context but it’s all wrong.
It’s talk through my tablecloth hat
from my unattached head:
so far below the salt
I’m under the table.
Even the song
iii. Time Trials
The body is the best mystery.
It wasn’t, then it begins;
it is, then it ends.
One moment, he is my dog then a car
and a perfectly dog-shaped nothing on the road.
When yellow leaves or none or few do hang—
that is now.
This was, too.
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