Winter Conservatories
The butterflies are all dead
& though the humidity hugs
my body, you have no excuse
to brush my shoulder, plant
butterfly kisses on my neck.
The orchids are out of bloom
& out of sight, tucked behind
bright bromeliads. Outside
the glass, the early planted
Narcissuses lie dead, bent
beneath the weight of late ice-
the folly of rushing into spring
& other things. When you grow
bored, brush me away gently.