The Melt

The white
New Years orchids
have fallen the long way down,
beheaded
slow, smooth young
beheaded boys in the wet grass.

But one
holds on.

After he, it will just be
a stick, straight as a spine in a pot,
one hair left in corpse flesh, one finger of a god
in one of a thousand coffins.

Could it fly?
Could it sink?
Could it live again in a fishbowl under
green water?

New Years Eve again.
It’s a slight change and then
none at all.