Wednesday, October 3, 2012


This afternoon, reading poetry from my students in a coffeeshop window seat, I saw this little lady on the sill. I wondered if she belonged to my backyard hive and then took her picture posed with my paperclip, which is gold because half the tiny things I own are now spray-painted gold. I think good poems are like bees: small, beautiful, dangerous specimens, not one hinge or socket out of place.

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