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
