Orchids

They lean over the path
Adder-mouthed
Swaying close to the face
Coming out, soft and deceptive
Limp and damp, delicate as a young bird’s tongue;
Their fluttery fledgling lips
Move slowly
Drawing in the warm air
And at night
The faint moon falling through whitewashed glass
The heat going down
So their musky smell comes even stronger
Drifting down from their mossy cradles:
So many devouring infants!
Soft luminescent fingers
Lips neither dead nor alive
Loose ghostly mouths
Breathing