In her sweetness where she folds my wounds
there is a flower that bees cannot afford.
It is too rich for them and would change
their wings into operas and all their honey
into the lonesome maps of a nonexistent
When she has finished folding all my wounds
she puts them away in a dresser where the
drawers smell like the ghost of a bicycle.
Afterwards I rage at her: demanding that her
affections always be constant to my questions.
— Richard Brautigan, “In Her Sweetness Where She Folds My Wounds,” Rommel Drives On Deep into Egypt. (Delacorte Pr, January 1, 1979)