after striking it with a large
book,
the latest
biography of Sylvia Plath,
called
The Red Comet,
struggles to stay
alive,
to take flight.
the anger is apparent
as the wings
flex and stinger
protrudes out.
the irony of it all does
not escape me.
seeing that Otto Plath,
was a beekeeper
for most of his life.
again i drop the book
down upon
the bee.
swiftness
is better than lying
there in
misery.
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