Missing Le Poeme

Where do I keep that memory
of my arms, yellow butterfly wings
flapping gently (riding the bike)
in the last throes of summer,
(sleeveless blouse now covered
in bright yellow jacket); the funny
thing you said this morning or the
fact I ate his piece of pie again
(without telling him we got some,
even, is it better to know or not).
it was so good I'll have to tell him.