The Tulips are Blown

Drawn out by the heat
The tulips are no longer tulips.
They are crisp corpses
To their cousins on the kitchen table,
Still close-lipped in their waxy cool

The dead flowers bother you -
Or is it my unwillingness to have then removed?
I love their tortured petals,
Spreading away from their stamen
Like fingers from a palm.

They still cling to colour
Purples, yellows and reds
I could pop a spilt petal in my mouth
And taste spun sugar
And decay.

You say the stems are rotting
That the water has begun to stink.
You inch around their unsightly spray
And I wonder if this is why
I find them so beautiful.