It is hard to get the orchid to live because it is easier to die. I want to charge into the ether of decay. Most days I want to do this through the doorway of arms. People can’t stop me: illuminated under lights, baking into different hardnesses. Chatting and letting their eyes sink into the corners where shabby sales reps wait, growing polite and sleepy beneath the dust-makers.
I’m in my membrane-colored sweater and we watch the swirl of generic birds. Tears enter your voice when you tell me how long it’s been since you fed them. The sound all around us is not unlike the crunching of dog food; the feeling is November in a long year of not getting laid. This is how I tell everything: ignore the back throbbing. Lie down and turn into trinkets.
First take the tufts of hair the dog chewed off the fur pillows and bury them outside in the snow. The other things that need to be hidden will be listed soon. It helps to be on top of a mountain at dusk or to find the cabinets stocked with English supplies such as biscuits. The lawyers are still rich as are the dentists. Everything else has changed. I look frantically for something to puzzle me.
I take my harp down to the water, but it isn’t a harp, it’s a person and we’re falling in love. Birds land on us and I grip the air with my eyes. Hills are arms and the landscape is a bucket. His whole body is taped to me or taped to a picture of the world
As delicate as an ass’s bray are the little lights which descend from the distant city inside you can’t pedal fast enough to get there and when you finally do catbirds have called it a day ears grow dim you are barely a sound so you head out again for the ring of trees