They grow cities on these flowers,

she told me.
I have seen faces emerge

from the arms knotted behind a man's back.

Sleepers;

wings sprouted from the web of fingers.
Dragon wings and a pterodactyl foetus.
It's all there

she said.

The dorsal fungus

and inverted smile.

That nascent web.

The whirlpool.
They grew the family on these,

she said.

That swell,

that family of lies,

that war.
They grew that family of seven,

she said.

That five,

that three:

muddle, fuddle, thistler and brothel –

no thistler, three brothels.

That family three,

she said.

That family tree three thee fee fine for fume.

That smell.
She sniffed.

They grow cities on these flowers.

She arched her back

and split.
Pollen puffed away

on the sea of grass.