this is when you sing with your sleeping bees

when love eats a grape and your kite has flown beneath the fever
of an unbent tantrum of perpetual applause
tongue sparked with eagles of smoke, champing at the bit of lore
at the end of the tunnel
where the keen moons
are like fur
against
winter.

but you embrace
with your
heart.

like an absolute
jungle of
you.

this is when you sing
with your sleeping
bees.

abuzz...

atuned