Sepals, petals, freckles:
Orchis, they tried to put you back together.
These elements are the best that they can do.

Your labellum, a violet pouch, hangs dour,
weeping for the incarnation of a flower,
coupling only with the insect-taker.

Your bulb, a sac of root tendrils, mouthing in haste
in firebrand-debate with hot ground.
A disabled ear tries to hear
an orchid speech.

But everything you have to say
is of warmth and beauty,
wrapped in an ornamental sheath of crazy.

You telecast,
“I have sinned, true.
But unlike the rose,
I had thoughts,
and I chose,


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