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The Banyan Tree
With the soft hush of the recently bereft,
you whisper: Unweight yourself
float free.
I say: You think you know
me but you will never claim me.
Imagine an arc over crenellated sky:
constellations fracture but you
bend, glide.
Like the ghost orchid, you cannot
fall, or fail.
I will be elusive, luminous.
Whose stamen, whose pistil?
Someone sings––
there––on the forest floor
sings bark, mulch
and the cloying sweet smell of death.
A whole chorus
swells, rises
beneath the banyan tree.
You whisper downwind. I must answer.
And always that urgent
imperative––
mindless sex.
Like cymbidium,
a bright and willful start.
Return to Volume 2.3
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