Angel 1508

When bees die they die

with their wings straight out

They die of natural causes

and their tiny bodies are bent

as though landing on

a flower

Their wings seem

too big for them

and they lie scattered

about the floor, tilted

in dead positions

Now you have no

life, are tilted

forward that way

no noise from you

no danger in your stinger

no testimony

the way your body's bent

hunched up

singed with ecstasy