A guilty woman thinks
too much about thinking
or does she? The bee I meant
to cut from its death-trap
spider web in the lamp
that lit my garden reading;
my convenience to keep it
there just long enough to finish
Gluck's lines: if I wanted only
to hold you, I could hold you
prisoner.
This morning, warm tea,
yellow light, jasmine vines,
forgotten bee, black, poisoned,
shrouded. Now, the poet's words
make little sense to me:
those with the smallest hearts
have the greatest freedom.
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