The bee has drunk too much

of its own fevered dream and almost
doesn't find its way back to the hive.
Who told it to gorge on flowers of
fermented lime, to drink past the limits
of necessity? Every bristle that brushed
against bursting tendrils, dark gold
and orange, comes back freighted
with so much more than it went out
to find. But there's still the problem
of getting past the sentinels
who wait to tear off its legs,
punishment for straying too far, perhaps
too long; for making the daily drone
a drudgery even more wedded to certain
death. In my own life, how many times
have I taken that kind of risk, the kind
that leads from these little cells sticky
with the rind of industry, where comb is one
letter away from tomb? I never wobbled
when I walked, though sometimes I turned
morose and cried or spoke of secrets.

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