It is a simple construct:
            a box, really. No,

            a cube—four walls, a roof,
            a floor. In the middle: a boy,

a garden, matchbooks and bees.
            Yellowjackets. The boy is sitting

            Indian-style on the matchbooks:
            they make a smaller cube.

There are many. He has a bowl.
            In the bowl, bees. Yellowjackets.

            Surrounding, bougainvillea petals that have fallen
            from the vine. The vines, tendrils

through his toes, around him. Leaves in his teeth. All over
            the floor, petals. All have withered.

            They are like pink tissue paper, delicate
            to touch, insect wings crumbling.

He is an unwrapper. He has unwrapped
            most of the bees of their jackets.

            He has unwrapped the bees
            of their stripes, peeling them

from their fluttering bodies like removing the glue
            from an TV Guide address label, delicately.

            Once removed they curl into cursive O’s
            and are put into the matchbook box he sits on.

You could stuff a Christmas present in a bag
            with them if you are not a wrapper.

            The boy is not a wrapper, either.
            You are in good company.