I am growing orange trees. Others
are busy growing human ears
on the backs of rats using cells
from a petri dish.
Mine is a flimsy greenhouse
with an aluminum frame
and some foggy plastic
thrown overtop. When I breathe,
the walls rattle but that’s about it.
I throw costume parties
for my orange trees and dress them up
in bark and leaves. Sometimes
I let them wear fruit.
I turn my greenhouse into a monastery.
The trees are happy there.
I stick stars on the ceiling
and hang the moon as a disco ball.
I grew the orange trees
just so I would have something
to kneel in front of.
Searle says searching for similarities is a
useful strategy for comprehending.
But I know nothing about
what’s at the heart
of my orange trees. There’s a gap
between us. Who knows
how wide it is? I can’t stop breathing.
These walls won’t stop
heaving and rattling.