after another day of frustration, days after blooming in pink masses — up to 50 thumb-sized flowers on a stalk — after opening their lascivious throats to the sun, after sending out potent clouds of perfume day after day after day, the penstemons waited wantonly for sex.
there were virtually no takers, especially none of the lovers whose bodies fit the flowers like the food that fits the hunger, none of those lovers whose vibrating torsos these pink sheaths were made for, none of the heavy and hungry lovers that usually came to the flagrant sexual display like bees to . . .
where are the bees this year? is this the bee apocalypse?
and then, last night, under a crisp crescent moon
the heat of the day and the unfulfilled lust of the heavy perfume flamed into the night sky
and this morning, having read the signals in the sky, the bumblebees arrived, maybe 20 of them, big as a thumb, thrumming with desire, inexhaustible in their fervor, and in and out they thrust their thick bodies until the penstemons could be heard crying out their fervent pleasure.