Out of the killer came what is sweet.   

And then all at once, a bee. Then another. Soon a murmuring

            helix                 of heartbeats coil                        up

to the heavens                            like strings of some god’s marionette.

                        Below, a body.

What was once a body                now a puffed carcass

            given itself over to the story of sweetness.

The ancients named bees Lukoskordon                   which is to say

            torn by wolves        as it was believed           bees arose

from the corpses of Greece’s dead.             And so

                                    at the essence of honey, decay.

            The intoxicating aroma of mortality—

which feeds the earth,                 that great mother ever hungry

            to cleave civilization                    from our chest

                                    and cover us in saccharine wildness         

            until we return to bees,               to the hive from which we came.