November 12, 2019

• original memory

  

  the white orchids in the window
  and the delicate orchid-colored orchids
  need to be re-potted, a snowy-day's project.
  there must be something called original memory
  

  where orchids bloomed in a pleasure cavern
  carved in amber-colored amber
  and a rock sat cross-legged
  in a bullying swirl of hardened precipitation.

  at the beginning of this century, i intended
  to travel light, but things have a way
  of accruing.  i have acquired, among other things,
  a sole blue shadow, freshly aged and slightly stooped,

  with the hunchback posture of the winged.
  for a while,  i was married to a photograph.
  i kept my vows, walked the long miles of waiting
  until time took down my future
  in one cold swallow.

  nevertheless, i will finish this poem
  with a happy ending
  a sun
  on which to hang
  a hundred shades of endless sky

  • 9:08 am
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