Poppy sways on the edge of the garden
like some exquisite whore dancing for her own pleasure
rather than crumbs.
She's full fed of her toxins, intoxicated
She drears left then right, bows a bit....
The curves are stem so peculiar.
How she slipped perfect hooks and turns
into that no wood, indiscriminate thing
bending, looking so supple.
but it would snap in fragility.
Oh poppy, I sigh, chin resting on my palm....
thinking of the warm feeling of harvest.