forces us to think of Ohio
not as middle but as beginning,
as edge, we take each other
to the ruined spiral staircase
that seems to lead nowhere
and ends in sky. White orchids:
splayed sepals cling to cracks,
hawk moths lay eggs
on leaves, hatched caterpillars
chew root tips. You sear my thigh
to your hand. My hips
cup mouthfuls of your breath.
Why we always want more.
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