His tulips trembled, while mine were absent.
We never were gardeners, but explorers. We
watched boats each December, lit gaudy unto
Christmas; we were frantic when we dreamed.

The scientist tripped over speckled pumice.
Light travels faster than sound;
I saw his crooked nose
before I heard his laugh.

Could he know, how cold our heat was—our muscles
spasmed, electronegative tremors—epileptic.

When the weather was cool,
his fingers kindled my curves—his
knuckles scalded my breasts.
We were particles, we were nothing—
we were sixteen, and we shivered, raw uncertainty,
from so much heat.

Afterwards, twirling on dull wooden planks,
I knew every other moment I'd ever feel was obsolete.
However, we were gone. His lips were already disintegrating,
his ankles turned to dust. I, resilient, grew opaque.

After breakfast that May, a cluster
of worms soaked up the fresh rain.
You brought me a tulip.