A bumblebee so fat he is a ball
    of gold and black velvet makes
             the rounds of seven blue morning glories
on a crisp late August morning.
    He must shoulder the white
             stamens aside like a beaded curtain
to squeeze into each throaty chamber,
    where only his blunt, vibrating behind
             can be seen, he fits so perfectly
that honeyed interior space which holds
    him as he throbs in its moist sheath.
             Each time he extracts himself,
dribbling lemony pollen on her blue
    silk skirt, he stumbles a little
             before rising drunkenly on the cool breeze.