Greenhouse Complex
—Golden Shovel after Sappho
I scour rooms of dying flowers for someone
who might yet trill my name in
the night. I arrange fish bones for some
sign of permanence, trace the future
across trembling palms, keep time
in this transparent box under soil, and I will
plant orchids, my contribution, I think,
to all that is dead and dying. Petaled martyr of
martyrs—have mercy on this wilting, and on us.
