Poppy sways on the edge of the garden like some exquisite ***** 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.