Reading Myself

Like thousands I took just pride and more than just,

struck matches that brought my blood to a boil;

I memorized the tricks to set the river on fire--

somehow never wrote something to go back to.

Can I suppose I am finished with wax flowers

and have earned my grass on the minor slopes of Parnassus...

No honeycomb is built without a bee

adding circle to circle, cell to cell,

the wax and honey of a mausoleum--

this round dome proves its maker is alive;

the corpse of the insect lives embalmed in honey,

prays that its perishable work live long

enough for the sweet tooth bear to desecrate--

this open book...my open coffin.