The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. 
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. 
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour, 
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.