Last Orchids

There are momentary orchids
with their profundity
and tube tops stripped down
clean for lust

While others
more cold
and tightened up to self inflict
have become self aware of only war

With all roses sick with love
and sold out of thorns
It must be orchids

Rare
and twisted to quiver for lust
With  rhythms and motions entangled
With all the fucks and all forgotten

And it becomes a certainty of orchids
Waiting
And will always wait for war

Gently slipping
Or casually  cruel
like a beautiful thing

Held down to our eulogies
Recited from the pulpit
Of their hesitant unfold

And there is "halt!"
Postponement.
Abrupt!
In the awkwardness of unrequited lust
or the blusterings that lead us from war

But orchids linger
Refined
down within the narrow seams of light
Unfinished and oddly prosaic

With a plaintive, post-modern drift between each day's stillness
and last shadow