No.
Let the first word of this poem be no.

Stop growing this late-August honeycomb around me.
Stop stuffing each cell with dead ones.

No.
We are the sweetness!
We were supposed to be the sweetness.

Edna, Bertha, Zella... No.
Théodule, John, Ownie... No.
Honeycomb, catacomb. No.

The village is filling,
every window lit with a black lamp.

Is this that I carry a lamp of daylight or darkness?
No.