The past is such a curious beast.
It has the lightness of things gone
and weighs roots down
with precious care.
Lets you hold your lover’s fate
between your hands,
but in its changelessness —
you are lost. You dream of
desert flowers blooming
once a year, and wonder
if the next will be wider, whiter,
impatient of your touch.
You dream of a ghost orchid
that lives suspended in midair,
receives the grace of darkness
and a sweet scent of apple.
It opens at night like a paper-star
and perishes, untied,
with the morning sun.
It is so rare it gives you fever,
each petal a wing, a blade,
a flame, everything to be,
to be — and no past to beat.
Its pale skin offers itself
with a confidential moan,
moonrays caught
in the sudden web
of its roots,
but your brain in that flash
is the weight of a shadow —
you go away
jealous of its promise
just before it shows.

 

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