and that’s true, kind of.
but never more than
the sound of my own voice.
never more than giving
all the things i love
about myself to a
more deserving husk.
once
i shouted down
an entire battalion of
carnivorous orchids.
they were like you—beautiful
& presumptuous
& arrogant
thinking
that because they
were pretty i would not
blow my indulgent breath until
they were but stem and root.
how do you think that turned out?
didn’t you ask me
why the summer field
was greenless & naked
as we drove by it?