you’re bolshie in morning hover, smug humming
zip tours of roses, those puckered up girls
while the pool’s unblinking eye gives back
your stateliness, your striped I’m-great-liness.
Hop a jig along, stop –
take the measure of after-margherita me
bare-legged, still drunk in the gazebo.
Why must you kamikaze for accidental grazes
and sheer not-knowing swats?
Why must you threaten me
with your terrible kiss? Know this:
when I am savaged by Maine flies
and ants swoon in the sweet relish,
I’ll praise you and your raffish pride.
Behold my obeisance, o bees of Rhode Island.
You are all propulsion, miracle,
and the goodness of the day.