With the last of the beekeepers,
I’ve made a deal:
I get to eat their honey,
as long as I lick their summers clean
at the end of this century.

With you, I have no deal.
If I see you strangled, well, I have to run.
I have combs to chew, fingers to suck;
I have a shotgun to blow holes in my enemy.

Even the stars beat the sky into submission
these days; it’s just the way things are.

I’ve shed the last of my bees.