whose whirling leaves distract us
hardly for a moment but we lose
track of time and space and then
suddenly they appear with bees
identifying which are real and which
our own shadowy projections
a trick of beauty to pretend
ugliness is real but the bees
discriminate sidestepping
the dying blooms left to curl
in upon themselves around
a tiny empty whirling space
having served their purpose
having kissed that ugly face
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