Sitting under the crook of the eaves
in my black and yellow jumper
I turn ultraviolet blue
in the gaze of a honeybee
I watch enter the roof.
Like a postman’s round, the sex
drags on all morning, its fine
filigree residue dispatched
journey by journey to our
asylum of honeycombed dark.
All round me masterpieces
of morbid secretions find their
invisible form, perfection raised
to the level of self-devouring,
a stomach digesting its body.
The bounty of innumerable
foxglove lips parted
slaveringly has brought us to this:
a jelly pleasure sea
I float on, hapless acolyte
of a queen I nourish and dread.
Am I so much as noticed, I wonder,
I and my furious labours? I feel
the jelly throb with her need for me, me
and those billions of others, my kind.