(the illusion of self we each have).
An orchestra gathers its mana,
and song rises from the nascent hive.
Harmony: honey of the many.
To fuse in unison is to live.
To lose oneself is life’s best honey,
oozing into a pool from a line
of woven sweet. The whole great world hones
its taste on this music. It’s zany:
the swarm of cells inside a bee’s bones,
the million details that make a home,
all your memories dropped from boxes—
from mess, a lucid lyric will come,
the chaos looped and closed in a link,
fit into a geometric comb,the sweet cellular soul of a womb.