Puddytat
tiptoes through the rising mint,
Secretive
as a sapper, stalking bees
She
does not want. How fey of her. Such twee
Impulses
we impute. Perhaps she likes
The
same sack Puck smelled. Maybe she is roused
By
stingers in her stomach. Nothing sweet
Is
likely to be true, the clerisy
Informs
itself from Deuteronomy
To
Darwin. She is twisting in the sun,
Trying
to warm both sides at once and failing
Elegantly,
fur laid across the lawn,
A
preyer’s shawl, a boa on the grass.
There’s
honey in the earth. And someday more.
