If my head is a bunch of flowers,
my throat is a vase choked with stems.
If the wind is drunk it explains the knocked over tables.
If my mind is a membrane stretched over the mirror,
the sky is broken.
If I cannot taste fire my breath is scented with dank flower water.
If the rain is ink then the face at the window is unreadable.
From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.