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Bees from a cleaved hive dive sky-
ward, draw upon the raw, October
air a hair shirt, a turret, a portrait of War-
wick (the earl of), a single modest opera
glove, & a clove of garlic in a star-
lit cove. O, but when the wind its gusts
gets in an uproar, that glorious swarm
explodes, grows thin, explodes
again & in an autumn's dimming
is mistaken for some mist, a wisp
of smoke.

Jay Hopler

The Kenyon Review

May / June 2017

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