Quills on
the pronominal orchid—
what has not been said
of I? Phenomena
beget Them, all around,
in their hovels, eating
their food.
What once
was We scoured & sewn
with shards, Your boon,
the colors running off
the synthetic oriflamme
into sticky pools, enamel
clawed off the sun-painted
moon—work all of the day
& into the night, to know
its secret, Us, held low
in the dirt. I
am going there,
anyway, to do what You
should have done, We
can never recover, can
never go back to the sleeping
little streets or the corner
store totems, a standard
of flypaper to which I
am adhered & held above
like a snake head.
