In the right context, forever can mean
anything. Completely out of context, it means space.
How do those houseplants know to grow that way?
How does my skin know to cool down?
I write a few words on my hand, including balcony
and seeds, then think about a torture that involves
shoots of bamboo. In my new notebook
I write drown, then on a new line
get me out of here. Light passes through
the roof and walls, absorbed into the earth
and all the contents of the room. How hot’s
that terracotta get? How flexible’s this
glass? I picture my veins bursting like an over
-pressured dam, pouring away, Old Testament red.
In my new notebook I write Old Testament red,
to be a poem about the different kinds of pain –
loss of love, loss of loved one, etc. – but can’t
decide on words to rhyme with balcony
or drown. Some of the trees
have been constrained so that they grow out
horizontally, their branches forced
down by a wire, which I learn later’s called
espalier. One of the trees appears diseased,
its leaves dried out and turning brown,
like hair that changes white after a shock.
At home I start a poem I expect to call
‘Espalier’, about the different kinds of pain,
their uses, functions, methods, aims.
In the right context, forever can mean / anything,
it starts, the summer folding over itself,
a tropical vine weighed down by its fruits.