whistling happily on my arm
‘cause nothing was wrong, you said
and (from one to the other) we were guests
tangling strings all spring long

I kept myself neatly
for your satisfaction
and I waited so long I dried out
a flower pressed into the pages of a book

(it seemed to me) that
your hips felt alright on mine
but when the summer came I reached for your hand
you waved it away like a honeybee