A bee rolls in the yellow rose.
Does she invite his hairy rub?
He scrubs himself in her creamy folds.
A bullet soft imposes her spiral
and, spinning, burros
to her dewy shadows.
The gold grooves almost match
the yellow bowl.
Does his touch please or scratch?
When he's done his honey-thieving
at her matrix, whirs free, leaving,
she closes, still tall, chill,
unrumpled on her stem.
May Swenson, Collected Poems, Library of America, 2013.