A flower never taunts a bee. Digging ditches in the prison of my psyche I find a sapphire. Quickly I put it over my eyes and peer through it to see the underside of this gossiping world – the truth quilted and fluffed and made by needles and violence. Stretching toward the sun is a talent of plants. Stretching toward the moon the predilection of women. And men? The men tend bee hives into the horizon.
Miniature Moon 