The Sting

Pain blooms
At the vibrant sting-tip,
Researching its acres

Of possible conquest,
The settled lands.—
Not one ell will rebel, beloved.

There is a sting
A very distinct, insect sting,
A red fibulating sting.

A new queen
Chooses new constellations,
New fissures in old darknesses;

And the continents realign
To their prim allurements;
All eyes

Go up, up….
Prairie fires of stories discuss the goddess:
Rapid and ruinous

As a new moon
Adorning the dimness with whips of light,
Drawing each grassblade

Out of oblivion
With her trailing kisses:
Silver sliver, silver sliver.

Restless trees creak;
The towns lie awake in their beds,
Breathing their finitudes of time—

Uncalm in cool sheets;
Cats eyes inhabit the night's pallors;
Each wind waits unbegun,

As an army in veritable darkness
Awaits your first word
To leap.