to mention an orchid to a storm
by the long, cool dark of her hair, i am divided;
as if i were a yes torn between too many no’s,
as if the night had a flavor all its own,
and it was of licorice and remorse,
and on my tongue it would melt like a snowflake.
between the streetlights and the sidewalk,
i am a stranger with no coat or gloves
and many whispers.
and the others are all strangled by scarves,
and from the side, glare and snarl,
and i am of another place,
though home is nowhere.