The florist reads faces, reaches into the mouths of customers.
Turns curled tongues into rose petals,
teeth clinking against one another into baby’s breath.
She selects a cut bloom, a bit of leaf,
lays stem alongside of stem, as if building a wrist
from the inside. She binds them
when the message is right, and sighs at the pleasure
of her profession. Her trade:
to wrangle intensity, to gather blooms and say, here,
these do not grow together
but in this new arrangement is language. The florist
hands you a bouquet
yanked from your head, the things you could not say
with your ordinary voice.