buds

hardly a confession

so softly an eruption

of a sunflower

that is inelastic in the spring

of a sleepy volcano scared

of its own yawning heart

of a poem pronounced as an exhalation

followed by a deep buttery silence that is blooming

to you

saying that we’ll make more than love

while we are making love

tongues rolling like sweet blueberries in summer

and later asking what that rumble is outside

when the trucks have stopped the constructions

and the first bugs are yelling about the sprinkle of pesticides

meant to help the growing around

then you do rising

then your legs are cut off by end of the bed

then you take your clothes off the ground

and you

naked

undone

tell me that you need to get something off your chest

but you cannot remember what it was