Apiary

In '94,
               in the early Autumn,
I stood there, torn
               between two homes on itching feet.
And, in the warm,
of a thick October, Wyoming Saturday,
I tossed my queries at the sun.

It looked like buckwheat honey, setting--drop of burnished brass.
Stuck to my face, a viscous coat, but it still went down too fast.
A lightning bolt in quiet thunder, stuck to the rumbling ground,
'til the decade at my fingertips burned all my fences down,
                                                             they burned right down.

In twenty-twelve
               in the jaws of Winter,
those cold fangs fell
               I guess I'll never be un-bit.
These days, each night,
the months flip by. I grow fur and much longer teeth.
I howl and flee on padded paws...

In my youth, I always dined with insects. Swallowed the queen bee.
Now I'm old and time has filled my guts with droning beasts that sting.
These days I keep my lips drawn tightly over bleeding gums,
retaining all that bloody honey, quieting that buzz,
                                                          that endless buzz.