hyphenated gardens

cut me up, buttercup--
spin me over down your poppy-dazed
gold-dusted fields, past sodden mazes
tall towering hedges toppling
over too-large feet and inordinately wet palms.

apple sins and tasteless debauchery,
scatter me through sun-flecked eyelids
dusted cherry blossom pink, rake me along
the leaf-littered languorous language of
tongues and hands and hearts.