I have to lay quiet sometimes
like a fallow field under last year's mown straw.
I can taste what you can only see.
Mouth full of ice frosted grapes they are fermenting to wine
and I am drunk, infused or cursed with delirium
far beyond what was advertised.
What couldn't I be sold,
I have no experience like this.
You forget I am a flower,
my bloom fragile but roots...
those I have like a dandelion taproot,
my very existence unmarketable
even somewhat unplanned.