Insolate

Orchids chew on sunbeams
while they nod at all the silent
passing humming birds.
I kill them with a spade
I took from a garden shed
in an overgrown section of the forest,
no one knew about but me.

The world is a spiraling tree
bent out of shape for us
to mangle into shelter.
Whole packets of trading cards,
burnt in a barrel, still unwrapped
until the heat melts
the art work away.

People love the insulation
in their walls to the point where
they make tunnels in and wait there
until they breath enough to die.
The detectives laying down
the lines drink for no one,
but themselves because
it almost seems to misdirect
the horror.

I love mocking things
I think deserve it as much
as the next person,
but it never sits right with me later
when I’m leaning against the wall
of building, I don’t plan on entering,
and I’m imagining what it would be like
to be somebody stuck there.