Golden Death

There’s dirt in the honey — it’s stuck in
translucence. Then as flecks in the corners of my teeth.

If only I could get closer, I could admire
the small perfection of each hexagon.

But I cannot ignore the death-hum looming above
the water. I collapse into my seat with that first sting.

I forgot that paddle-boats are for leisure, not for making
escapes. I dive into the icy darkness.

My clothes weigh down my limbs as I swim
like a wet dog: holding my head up, cupping my hands.

I know the dock is decaying when it sways underneath
my weight. Followed by the enemy, the battle lurches on.

They fight for their queen while I fight for myself.
I smell rotting wood as my eyes and mouth swell shut.

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