The cauliflower encourages shock—

a fat bulb you loosed

 

from the stalk, grown

all summer to give itself up.

 

The dark farm in diorama

crams between each branch.

 

I brush caterpillars into the sink

and geese wink out, smatter

 

dirt on my hands

in their landing.

 

Without a knife, each flower

clicks clean from the stem

 

as you said it would,

in a backward crack,

 

a snap of the head.