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Bees


I used to watch the bumblebees brush
flowers’ teeth, scraping off the pollen plaque

with their legs covered in metallic moustache
hairs. At night I dreamt drones

came to my bed, cleaning clods
of dirt from behind my ears, eating

dead skin off my face, bleaching brown
hairs blonde, pollinating my empty eyelids

with sleep. They’ve since sprouted spindly
tendrils of daylight. I’m awake, and aware

of the honeycomb of pavement, poor
hive minds wandering the road, rummaging for metal nectar.