Passionfruitcowgirl

The purple flower
fits exactly
the heavy bee

whose little body,
swerving like a drunkard
on a string,
can yet land
in exactly the right way to please her.

He opens her slightly,
she shakes her head
then quits her pouting.

A gasp;
she quivers.

The bee drives on
and, fully embraced
in the throat of those petals
delights her with his tongue,
awash with honey.