Oh sure, it's easy for you
with your blue orchids, their little
balled fists lining up in orderly progression
according to the book of orchid rules
that they make out of sheer rock and air
to hang themselves upon.
Me, I'm like the road up the mountain,
the one that forgot to veer
with the forest: it couldn't follow
the logic of a roadbed and headed headlong
over its own edge.
How I feel about certain things—
your forearms, that blue—isn't
under consideration, wouldn't even be
allowed. You understand when I say it's easy
for you I don't mean I believe it is.
Just that it's different for me:
I made no such decision, I have no rule
but you. That's a curve that comes back around
after the switchback, then it’s the river
at the bottom of the empty sky
that I fall into when I drift with spinning wheels
over the cliff fragrant with unrooted blooms.