THE BEE HUT

For Robert Colvin

There is a dark place

on my friend Robert’s farm

that thrums

with the nectar smell

of danger.

A swarm of bees

has taken over

a dozing old shed

and no one

has the means

or guts

to move them.

I think of slaughtered

Mycenean kings

entombed in their brick

hive

glittering as they lie

golder than honey

in the old blood

dark.

Entranced

my bare hand

wants to plunge

through a hole –

now a buzzing lethal

highway –

in the shed wall.

I love the bee hut

on my friend Robert’s farm.

I love the invisible mystery

of its delicious industry.

But do I love the lesson

of my thralldom

to the sweet dark things

that can do me harm?