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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