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.