My madness amplifies the message
and makes the coiled course I must take
as clear as the sounding bees
fuzzy at the edges, but firm
and ready to engage the shears
to deck my desk with flowers:
slinky spin around the shaft of choice.
Cut this cord, muzzle any argument against,
and let the tendrils grow a day or two
where they fall, still stuck to the stem.
Why would one pluck a blossom from the hill,
carry its severed head indoors
and make it sing through clear liquid
that catches gasps and cries?
Black banded round the midrift
I buzz my anger at the thief
hop my honey-layered dance up and down,
nectar on my nose
and pollen on my feet
then dart inside to sting.