Buds of Chance

Linum stem curls into a cloud,  
undoes its florets for rainfall,  
springs out a hand across fates,  
then rolls its paths into one,  
into cloud.  
 
I see the cloud more than sun.  
The wind whips against droplets.  
With my tongue, I've tasted rain more than shine.  
It tastes like linum.  
 
Pulse.  
The stems pulse.  
The fibres didn't need to be open.  
The flowers didn’t need to be closed.  
 
We're lying on linen.  
I don't know if it was the sun that was bad or the rain,  
but the curling of the flax above our heads  
feels like cloud  
in coquettish uncertainty  
like commixing paths,  
like florets in a bud.  
 
Rain is like petals left to the air  
to entangle fates  
and into one.  
We're lying on linen.  
I don't know if it was the sun that was bad or the rain,  
but linum curls into cloud,  
pulsing.