Floating on the black orchids, I see the blood dripping from the earth above
Odourless, the velvety fluid covers most of what I see
Unlike the blood I know, this does not clot, does not turn brown
It trickles down and flows with a rhythm of its own,
And disappears beneath the bed of orchids
There is much to be savoured in this peculiar space,
For once I now know exactly how the stem looks underground,
The roots run longer than I thought they did.
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