Appetite

Pale gold and crumbling with crust

mottled dark, almost bronze,

pieces of honeycomb lie on a plate.

Flecked with the pale paper

of hive, their hexagonal cells

leak into the deepening pool

of amber. On your lips,

against palate, tooth and tongue,

the viscous sugar squeezes

from its chambers, sears sweetness

into your throat until you chew

pulp and wax from a blue city

of bees. Between your teeth

is the blown flower and the flower's

seed. Passport pages stamped

and turning. Death's officious hum.

Both the candle and its anther

of flame. Your own yellow hunger.

Never say you can't take

this world into your mouth.