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Inside the glasshouse, a metal strut.
Upon the strut, a jar – open.
Inside the jar, honey, sun, a wasp,
its wings glued to a fold, legs
motion slowly in the gloop, abdomen
throbs a sting at nothing.
A child watches, his mouth
a small o, eyes unblinking.
Tagged: Issue Two, Jon Plunkett, poetry, Spring 2013