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I do not take you in my tea, though my cup
Is a kind of hunger, a kiss that steams, that takes the wanting
And makes a tiny wreath of breath
That you, honey, would melt into.

I do not take you on my toast, though my plate
Holds the pale shapes that do not know
How to sweeten themselves, the way a novice lover holds out,
Forgetting that their own hands were all that they ever needed.

I do not stir you into the tumbler, or yeast you
Into something lurching, something tipsy; I do not spread
You across my oozing, open wound.

The hive is a kind of madness,
the bees droning on.

I do not take you in to spit you out, again, again, until you become.