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.
Carol Frost - 1948-
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