Honeysuckle

The hours after 
Heavy summer rain,

The air
A written proclamation
Held suspended within a pond,
All brute commandment
Streaked in running ink,
In soaking saturation.

The sun is sticky.
It evokes the strangest
Curious cravings.

You part the honeysuckle bush.
Along the tubular flower,
Tug the style.
Trail it down your tongue,
A nectar wild,
Nearly syrup.

The poison berries hang so tartly sour,
The blossom blooms so sweetly.

- 5/28/25

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