Bombs grow thistles along the fuse. What explosion tickles the membrane? It is a windowsill spice garden about to tell a story about our beginning. A bulb waits for a head to light over like a rhyme waits for a language to try the stretch of the eyelid. These old arts, though flinging, are harmless by degree, and purport to lasso an angel. The cold flowers say hello to the limerick trees through the transcendental telephone while crying and growing. Soil tickles, kneading itself, knowing about feet and angles. Blowing up in slow motion is called metamorphosis. When synchronized with another, it is called dancing. When the whole garden does it, it is called laughter.