In Poems & Fiction

It’s not your sting I fear,

nor the frenzied crush

of your yellow thrashing,

but your faithless hoverings—

nearer to me, than I am to myself—

until, like the electricity of sudden shock,

you flit to some other unsuspecting Poppy,

whose pretty nectar you imagine

far sweeter than my unswerving devotion.


Appeared in One Sentence Poems, May 6, 2016

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