"In Her Sweetness Where She Folds My Wounds"

Just read a poem, my darling, that makes me think of you:

“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
California county.
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..."
 
- Richard Brautigan, “In Her Sweetness Where She Folds My Wounds”