Horticulture or Eternity

We say we are done

with cults & throat swabs, but also ourselves

& the summer days that were never

so numbered as they led us

to believe. Some leaves are the shade

our flesh is on the inside, taking

on our temperature to tempt

a fly to fetid surfaces that force it

into service of self-

pollination. Other

leaves are said to possess

teeth, spines, lobes, fur. Forgive them for

they know not what. We’ve done

this dance before. This numinous

dance has done us in & all the in-

florescences in the Garden of What’s Needed

know it. Verily we suspect

no one is spared from becoming

numbed, becoming named,

however accidentally, after plants that prefer

secrecy to sunlight. We are, perhaps,

a touch like the famed corpse

flower these humid days—a little fishy, a lot

finished—holding

in our flesh

a fragrance that waits for us

to be sad and done.