This fat bumblebee trapped
at my window, his whole being,
it seems, furious and
trembling, buzzing against
the glass until he fatigued
and resigned himself to
his fate, this transparent
flat pane that detaches him
from reality – his
yellow thorax fur gleams
with slick sweat, as if
the effort of life itself
drains free from him. He lifts
his legs, delicate brushes
fastidiously grooming
his abdomen as if to
release the pollen he’d
collected, combs himself
to look composed for the
inevitable while his honey gut
shivers. He stiffens for
the passing from one state
to another, a cessation
of bumbleness, and so
we see that existence
does not, in the end, precede
essence, at least
not for this bee, it simply
means the end for this bee
is the end of essence
itself, the same old
same old, again.
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