The Father of Lies
I have a garden with nothing
But barbed wire and cinder blocks.
My bees go around on crutches.
When they buzz,
It 's a lazy afternoon
In the mcadow,
When they go gathering
With their hats,
The sky is cloudless,
Birds sing.
The honey in the black glove
Is golden.
Give it to a child
To lick ,
Give it to his dying mother
Lying in the shade
Of the old
Sleepwalking tree.
Time is slow. My bees
Are busy
And their eyes are closed.
