Sunflowers bow their heads under a reversed tundra of sky. Their waterlogged faces are edged with dirt, old-age etchings fill in eyes and foreheads. Fever-weight lowers behemoth blooms of yellow into a brown-red shame, they're perched on stalks like the homeless on pedestals. They yearn for the gutter. Broad faces ease towards eachother,

feel grain on your cheek,
crumble, fall and
sink into sleep.