The bee-boy, merops apiaster, on sultry thundery days
filled his bosom between his coarse shirt and his skin
with bees--his every meal wild honey.
He had no apprehension of their stings or didn't mind
and gave himself--his palate, the soft tissues of his throat--
what Rubens gave to the sun's illumination
stealing his fingers across a woman's thigh
and Van Gogh's brushwork heightened.
Whatever it means, why not say it hurts--
the mind's raw, gold coiling whirled against
air currents, want, beauty? I will say beauty.
by Carol Frost
published on poets.org