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Just Crazed


There’s nothing about this lemon-colored umbrella in my drink that is necessary.

It is frivolity and glamour under the faint Seattle sun.

And while I know all too well the limits of its luster,

it charms me still.


And isn’t that the point of every sweet and senseless surprise?

Isn’t that behind every wink,

every kiss mistaken,

every nickname ever given?

Each gestures beyond mere utility.


And yet, if a bee can land upon it,

believing my little umbrella a font of nectar-

a bee so evolutionarily intelligent, so mathematically inclined-

then I too can resist bitterness

for the ways in which I have been undone

by seduction.

I can admit my weakness for pyrite, and

still smile for the way it makes me stumble

and shimmer,

often interchangeably.


And I give thanks for being as crazed as a bumble bee.

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