There it is, the bird of paradise with the neverending sword beak —
look! It cannot fly, only flaunt papery orange wings. And over there —
a corpse lily, gazing everywhere with its cynical eye amidst a pile
of red bones. And see — the monkey orchid, an animal face
filled with chattering teeth and beady eyes, the chocolate cosmos
— a monstrous chunk to eat within a bleeding solar system patterned with stars.
The ghost orchid drips ectoplasm, while the middlemist red,
a fragile dancer, peeks from leaves of green like a distressed rose
does from a suit lapel. The jade vine, the hanging mother of pale beans with
the brightest blue eyes and curled so as to see from every direction.
And the lady’s slipper — I might even try it on! — comes in only one size,
bought for the daintiest feet that dare to traverse its garden.
The parrot’s beak, ready to stab you, to squawk at you, to try your finger.
Please, keep listening — for a dandelion, too, can make gold from its yellow mane.
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