I bought myself a bouquet
of flowers I cannot name:
purple bursts of pompoms,
kelly leaves rimmed in fuchsia,
and pink bulbs more fruit-like
in appearance than wildflowers.
I arranged them in a vacuum flask,
too broken to be anything
other than an half-hearted vase
with a too small opening.
I peeled back the curtain,
used a dirty blue clothespin
to let the afternoon sunlight burn
its way into my room.