Bled like honey

Bees burrow bruised
entrées to bodies,
dripping in dew juice;
like succus plowed maggots
fawning the corkscrewed
flesh of a bullet hole.
But they are merely
bees on a fallen peach,
recovering what has not rot.
Sucking at this sinewy ruby pit,
I imagine it my own backbone.
The bees don’t care about me,
so much
as I mind my tap dance.

written on 09/19/2013 by: Matt Kane