reddish-brown, dancing
around my dead nest that's
bombed, poisoned and fallen
to the ground. Still buzzing

where it hung. Stinging
men that stand near it. Strands
of it dangling down like colored
party streamers, swinging in

the air. My tummy balloons like
I ate a hearty meal. But I'm starving
as I spiel these lines. Smelling
of its death prickles me like

long needle pines. Rebuilding
on the splinters, on the shards of
what's been left. Not a pearl to
string. The brokenness has heft.