Untitled #2
1012.2010

I think tales like this about a city street
Whose jet legs are crawling with cars and moist,
Dressed in fog, lonely and fucking city hard ons
Standing tall and soaring to fires pinned upon night’s ink,
And they almost breathe when I tell them.

Right now I think:
“And you making sense mild, have planted
A wild orchid, vibrant with flaming red,
Physical with flushed petals and blooming, even in the chill.
I keep them in my room, against a blue wall where I sit,
And writing this, they stack something alive against it.”

And the thought breathes,
Is familiar with the truth:
I choose you with your gift of orchids that open in winter.

Marni©