Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Howie Good Dead Bees Sting, Too It feels more like summer, everyone says, though only the naturalizing daffodils have bloomed as I drag the garbage cans around back, and then you're there, a peculiar, black-striped pebble of gold plush that I nudge with the toe of my shoe, half-suspecting some kind of ruse, but the rebels in burlap masks have struck, and the royal escort has fled, and the gilded coach lies overturned on a remote road through the dark forest. Next Poem
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