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.