Like thousands, I took just pride
and more than just,
struck matches that brought my
blood to a boil;
I memorized the tricks to set the
river on fire—
somehow never wrote something
to go back to.
Can I suppose I am finished with
wax flowers
and have earned my grass on the
minor slopes of Parnassus....
No honeycomb is built
without a bee
adding circle to circle, cell to cell,
the wax and honey of a
mausoleum—
this round dome proves its maker
is alive;
the corpse of the insect lives
embalmed in honey,
prays that its perishable work
live long
enough for the sweet-tooth bear
to desecrate—
this open book...my open coffin.
From <i>New Selected Poems of Lowell</i>, edited by Katie Peterson.
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