I wonder, how do they make it so the bees
only feed on star thistle to make star thistle honey?
In the back of my mind, too, is a whole thing about
cruelty, the various mechanisms that support me
without my knowing them, the blast of smoke
that results in honey on my toast. What a luxury
I am, an almost insupportable mystery of desires,
all this evolution leading to an overabundance,
stray drops from someone else’s dances in the dark.
A prompt from NaPoWriMo.net. There was a further suggestion that I write a sonnet, but I opted out of that.