The Honey-Sellers

In searing heat, on 
the fern path― 
a thoughtless journey begins. 

You cancel the prayer 
for midnight blues. 
Ice was going to unload. 

The skin deep spread 
of levator floor acts. 
You jump from a springboard 
to catch a lucid dream. 

Would you now walk like 
an eight legged spider? 
I will remain sociable. 

The hands are not for sale. 
I am arranging the combs 
on the white sheet― 
for the queens.