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Without Compare

These leavened bees,

         this world
hung in concert between, from stem
to hive, each hum touched

         with sibling sadness,

         to a diminishing life, bid

to and from.

Worn, the shantung
         of them: breathless forms
shuttling through sunlight,

         between bud and home.

         How loyally they hold their
vigil, speechless as heirs

         pacing a marbled hall,
                   weighing the falling

pulse of the monarch.

Paula Bohince

The Children
Sarabande Books

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