Piss
coloured flowers
or maybe they’re daffodils
wash bouquets through a cycle and hang each petal with wood pegs
wet wood, and it stains black, but still spring loaded
tug of war between wind and wood,
pinching a little too hard, petals pluck off
love me, love me not,
it’s either sweaty armpits or goosebumps under sparse cotton
or damp denim clinging to skin
the sun and my sunnies don’t conversate
lemon in coke is too sour,
insides flashing amber
taking the
piss