{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }


This poem stirs the soup-heart of emotion as it plasters the mind with enchanting wide-screen vistas, enforcing a universal reconciliation between lovers, the living and the dead, birds and the sun, me and you.
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Intimacy
by Dorothea Lasky


Intimacy is a braggart.
Intimacy you are a braggart
Ultimately a braggart
And no joy in bragging
Your lips to mine, like hot water.
The hot water does not burn me
It makes a soup.
Your heart is a soup
The sun is heating your heart
I kiss you, I kiss your heart.
Ultimately you are not intimacy
And in kissing you, I am not intimate with anything
But my own demise, which is the demise
Of forests and palm trees and such
And such the birds that open their heads
On the flat plains of the sun.
“This is my face!” the sun says
And the birds cry and weep and cuddle.
“We are so sorry” they say
“We did not realize this was your face.”
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