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these birds nest out of your ribs
like heart worn on your limbs

looking game
lock picking
scrapped

from compassion for birds.
bad hours
-
the pond moth flaunted its wings
in the remorseless water
wider than it would
when in the meadow sky
there dead-white it laid
like an opened orchid
just a fragment of another unfinished poem in my notebook
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
He always lets them
braid petals into his hair,

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿
(swept over his ear
and beside his eye),
✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

and he breathes deeply
and smiles softly,

and knows
that he is loved
when he is
next to his flowers.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
))))))

I tried to save your life six seconds ago,
but the air sent me away
when I moved in its domain
to reach for your hand.


((((((


You were vilified in its winds.

It gushed of how you ruined everything.

))))))


It once killed you,
but you trudged back
from the river's part,
without spite,
holding an elder's rebellion.

Your         crime         was too heinous
and the wind begged me to **** you again.

((((((


With the trial withstanding your time,
I sought your records.

They were pulled in gusts,
spread over pinkened
cumulonimbus clouds,
and struck down to my hands
where I dropped them myself
in utter revulsion.

))))))

How could I ever save you?

You killed the air too.

!!!!!!!!
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
{|}{|}

sunflower
solidarities are pleasant enough,

{|}{|}

and they can die on the Hill over there
with the other volumes of
sunflowers,

those
that are puffed up
in their brazen majesty,

that are seeking the envelopment
of warm air,

that are vying for the ****** sun,
as always,

that are holding petals
who creep inside when put upon,

that are sobbing for the other sunflowers
as their radial compatriots,

that are living for all else
that cannot,

that are swaying with intent
that bends them off,

that are dying in beating blades
of grass,

that are toasting to deities
who are concealed in their flames,

that are writing ardently
in their soft refrains,

that are fornicating their pleasures
away from the other
sunflowers,

{|}{|}

that die on the Hill over there
when solidarity is enough for them
to extract pollen by their own strength
and pelt it at the bees
and dissolve on their stems.

{|}{|}
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
roses' petals kept him,
                twirled him inside white throws,
         blanketed him in relief
and then sealed him up.
they painted him in pollen,
they walked him with stamens,
and he never looked up, either,
because his roses filled him.
they throbbed thorns beneath him
      that never struck him,
          and he never snuck down, either,
              because he had roses to swaddle him.
                     his roses kept him.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^'
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
I drag his
lungs
into a
loose blackness.
い い い い
They crumple
at the margins
as I bloat them
full of dust.
い い い い
I wash water on them
so that they
settle
like ink.
い い い い
His lungs can
breathe
on my paper,
unbroken.
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