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  • What do bees know?

    What do they know of the lipstick tunnels?

    Of rain, the deluge, apres le deluge, the magic hour?

    What do the bees know, quiet, off stage, en off, awaiting the morning, the lipstick honey?

    What do the bees know of the bells, the foxglove bells, clever as lipsticked foxes, what do the foxgloves know of their own alias, the heart-arresting Digitalis?

    What stain, this lipstick blood taint, in the Sunday sun, that special sun which only comes pre-dusk after the deluge....

    The poison bells await you. Tongues, blood, pretty as women, their bells white, blushing pink. Lipstick towers alluring life, vertical come-hithers. They will stop your heart. Literally.

    Come my love, they say, see my new blood shade, so matte, so deep, so deadly.

    (Photo by Susan, in the garden)
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