We pressed dandelions and daisies Numbed the tongue Just milk-sap Teardrops from the stem Torn and, negligently broken Don’t eat the flowers (you said) With that charmless, bitter poison A mercy My mother called them Marguerites and monsters As if they were saints Or easy sunsets Tore them out The desperately pale roots Still aching A wither already on The petals and the beckon-hearted leaves Sun following Evening’s sleepy eye Blood and bone and dreaming Megalodon fragments In the earth-dark coagulation Gerberas in hungry colours Brazen, with that dizzying Pyrethrum intoxication But Still not quite the same
