in the afternoon
as sunflowers grow
full bloom. The rose wine
smells like sweet perfume. I string

my head on a cloud. But tie
it down to the ground. So, it doesn't
wander into the neighbor's yard
like a condor flying circles in

the air. And I slump in my plastic  
chair, as the golden sun sinks like
a stone in water. And how I hated
to be her daughter! I pen the lines

that bind me to her in pages
that can be fewer if I abridge. But
the ridge I climbed has no footholds
for my lines. So, I inked them in turpentine.