I know that rarity precedes extinction,



Like that of the purple orchid in my garden,



Whose sudden disappearance rattled me.







Jane, in her way, is also beautiful.



And therefore near extinction, I suppose.



She is certainly rare and fragile of bone.







She insists she is dying, day by dubious day,



And spends her evenings looking at photographs



Of her mother, who never believed in love.







Rare Jane, I worship you. But I can’t deny



You access to the endless



With its river of cold stars.





