A Honey Sestina   a sestina in the vernacular   I watched her drop a dollop of honey   into the coffee. I told her it was wrong   to mix two pure   substances, which each alone   is a treasure but together   wrinkle the mouth into a grimace. "Like   the bees are going to care," she said, "Like   the beans abhor honey,   or vacuum and nature stroll together   through the badlands of our house. It's all wrong   and when in Rome, go it alone."   She looked at me again. "How's that for pure   nonsense? Pure   putting words together in a pudding that tastes like   anathema and asparagus." She added a gratuitous, "Leave me alone."   "Honey,"   I said, "You look so fine. You are the bees knees to everything wrong   in this house. Together,   we could turn the world upside down. Together,   we could be pure   fire and magic. But what you did to the coffee is wrong.   I can't forgive you. It's like   dropping a half ton pillar of salt into a wound. A spoonful of honey   isn't going to make it any better. A bee alone   takes clover and in a biochemical factory inside the hive, alone   in the dark, buzzing its wings together,   it makes the honey   sweet. It colors it with pure   gold. I, and most everybody else, like   it just fine, but the song is wrong   if its sung too long, and God put the sting in a bee for the likes of me. I've been wrong   before but not about this. About your weaknesses, yes. About leaving the baby alone   to run get some beer, yes. About matching you and me, never. I'm like   coffee, black and bitter, together   with something angelic and pure   like honey.   Honey comes from a little round house suspended in the air. Coffee from the Earth.   One is right as rain, the other wrong like a bee sting. Alone, they are pure   and together they make for interesting conversation. Or so I've been told.