Downward drifting of the treble clef, a spiteful tilt away the only movement I detect in the vacant blue bulbs that should be orchids, should be orchids by now but refuse. Mozart for the orchids, afternoon, everyday over and over and over and nothing but the straight stalk and a spiteful tilt away. the twentyfirst concerto, the andante, begging the orchids to bloom, to become something but they do not listen. In the side gardens the earth is cool umber and marbled with red clay and the begonias, this is the place where I bury my images, the ink cools the clay and I want to forget, I use my fingers to push the images into umber.
There are photographs of you from warm places, photographs where the dogwoods are bronze with the sun’s falling, photographs of you fallen near the creek, palms crushed into the umber of dropped wet leaves, the red stain of wet leaves on your palms when you rise at high noon. Photographs of you and I together in the green flash of the final sharp gasp of day, before everything cools everything electrified. But that was then, before I pushed my images into the umber of the side gardens, near the begonias, near the orchids that won’t, and wait for august to rise and bring the dry heat that will parch the photographs to white husks, curled, bluish at the edges, empty but for tired silhouettes, shapes that used to be you or me or something I loved once and want to forget, I forget why it is that I come to the side gardens afternoons, everyday over and over and over with mozart’s twentyfirst. I come for the orchids, to beg them to bloom, they tilt away out of spite, because you know, you know that orchids, despite popular opinion, orchids are not fond of elegant and fine things, orchids actually rather uncultivated, vacant, effete, insufferably dull. I come to push my photographs into the umber with my fingers, I come for the Mozart, and I come for the orchids that won’t. I come to beg, to forget. Tired, graceless, lost in the downward drifting of the treble clef.