"Of Lullaby"
"My orchids suffer from your paramilitary attitude.
Won't you touch me?
Every lullaby soothes moments of the hurt despite the uniform
and lovely water.
What is known of our biographies?
That they belong to us and fan out into meanings.
Cufflinks rubbed to a dramatic shine.
Pristine things swerve into relationship
with seasoned elements.
Can a habit be unlearned?
A white shirt used to clean unruly appliances.
Real flowers in the photograph appear affordable.
Phases of our joining include partial poverty
would seem refreshing as respect,
as familiar as the word tulip, where the flower has
been unframed petal flesh.
The desire to pulp a value.
Quantify the fact of touch as hospitality.
To temper parchment with pressed flower skin held in a book.
Faculty of memory.
The way you looked.
And still the Earth around these other tangibles."