Around a Pomegranate One Second Before Waking
              —after Salvador Dali

She sleeps with pomegranate seeds—
bittersweet blood-red never
staining the bluest sea;
like her, they float above it.
Not even bayonets pierce
skin in suspension. A fixed threat
has no sting.
                            The bee's wings beat
the wind. His tongue searches for her.
Hind legs trap her naked flesh.