June 11

Truth in hunger-dark, against seeking
Flower in Los Angeles, whose existence I find
Remarkable improbable pertubation
I do not think this flower will live a long life.
Leaves burn in white days, spurned by Mother Sun,
It now does its living by night
I too have learned to love the Moon as my Sun.

Root wilt swallows poison water
the only water this plumbing can give,
tap unclapped and twisted toward ‘C’,
Constant constant, but only lukewarm, only lukewarm
nursing such a little thing against so much Sun
this little unusual improbable illogical
this
perfectly ordinary orchid.

It stretches out every night
it doesn’t think I can see it, but I can see it
we watch the moon together