Brad Rose Bee, Erratic It’s not your sting I fear, nor the frenzied crush of your yellow thrashing, but your faithless hoverings— nearer to me, than I am to myself— until, like the electricity of sudden shock, you flit to some other unsuspecting Poppy, whose pretty nectar you imagine far sweeter than my unswerving, dulcet, … Continue reading Brad Rose: “Bee, Erratic”
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