takes the light
and turns it
inward, crawls
over the bark of trees
harmlessly. It doesn’t
even bring its leaves
along, abandoning them
after youth.
It lets its brief bloom
fall away
like the address of the house
you once loved,
your old bike
still leaning
against the garage wall.
Ghost name blooming
on the bark
of a street sign
in a landfill.
Ghost flower branding
a dark world
with white neon.
Late night
at the closed
ice cream stand,
you can melt
with its petals
into the swelter
of rising tides
of drought and smoke
of hunger and everything
that grew you up then threw you out.
If there is anything left
to be haunted
let the orchid
scrawl its ghost graffiti
on silvering wood.
Let these words
be the ghost orchid
whose roots cling
to the roof of your mouth.