a golden river that does not sting
a sweetness that clings to nothing
a bear-shaped ghost
a factory breath
a cornfield’s final exhalation
this is not honey
this is slow light
this is liquid gold that never knew a bee
that never touched a wing
never trembled on a comb
never held a summer’s secret
in its viscous soul
it is sweet like numbers are sweet
like profit margins bloom
in silent warehouses
where no flower ever grew
it enters the tea
of the unaware
it coats the throat of the child
who will never know
the dust of the bee-leg
the shadow of the hive
the taste of a place
the truth of a bloom
we are what we eat
and we eat absence
we eat a smile with no face
a name with no story
a gold that does not shine
a sweetness
that does not love us back.