Poems

A place

White and Yellow

Sweat beads on you fordead cast in a million tiny hexagons

Try not to think of the sting of your thighs, longing to relax  

Nor the exhaustion of your hand, shaking with the force of a hive

Every advance feels like you are sliding through honey, an impossible goal 

But you must do your dance, little bee, and pin your opponent first.