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I, Putative

for H. C.

Barer than January maples, bare abandoned hives:
the bees silenced in their harvest rustle.
Like as to like, the soul
quiets, if soul it is, this bee box
in the chest. What outward presence
calls to inward space, drop your wings?
And what unclaimed interior complies?
Oh the flatland reveals its field of golden
stubble, and oh the sheared stalks
do not cry out. No, the chaff flutters
in the midland wind and the wings of the dead bees
quiver in the box.

By Geri Doran