at the farmers' market

The arbor of his chin

Bedangled with a cluster

Of yellow grapes that buzz

Like an electric razor,

This raiser of honeybees

With face in half-eclipse

Coaxes some hairs aside

To clear space for his lips.

He's a master of close shaves.

How well he does one thing,

With what abandon braves

Disaster's sting,

Quite unlike refugees

Crossing a perilous sector.

A whir - his moustache flies

Away in search of nectar.

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