Floating with Anchors

One moment- at the bus stop
the next- on hands and knees
in your garden;
twigs disturbing
the brown cracks of my palms
and shins.

and again i crawl
towards the cluster of
red sunflowers.
our meeting place.

and, as is routine,
i pull my dirty index
and plug one nostril
so hard
my nose begins
to bleed

bent over
i am running my nose across the soil
beneath the flowers
and let the pollen rush to my skull
so that my head begins to hurt
so good

rolled over on my back
i fail to notice the slugs
that made their way into my hair
slick and slow

i release myself to the
rivers of itchy grass
while
bits of bloody sunflower pollen
feast
on the 90%
scientists say
we never use

and i cough up flies
while you make love to me.