I am an orchid, in the fullness of my bloom: an orchid child, something totally new. You can read about it in The Atlantic. I saw “The Science of Success” and I clicked. Sometimes I like to read about scientists.
I am an orchid, wet and dewy in the garden of Muddy XIV (this is a dream). The sunlight plays with the hair of a woman, like, sexually. The contract expires on the day. I turn my frilled head to the primal scene (this is a dream), the unwritten goes unseen—.
What was it I was? In the reflection in the sunroof I appear to flower. The sun flowers in the rearview, the phone flowers—it’s her. I’ll drive anywhere. The sunroof opens on another life, and closes, and closed is a tinted mirror that also opens.