The breath lands on your shoulder.

Queer-wheeled and all

The world hasn’t stretched into a teardrop

Yet  there’s some leftover solace in a brown paper bag


In the break room fridge so help yourself.

Its lower-left quadrant mottled by grease

Or some other non-GMO effluvia

Of the 40 hour week but no tears.


This motif was built on blood and sunshine,

Indigenous plants and a divine work ethic

Predicated on fratricide.

Bees come and go in the garden


Pollinating like fools.

We hew closely to prescriptions

Baiting the bears with earrings made

of honeycombs.


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