Three Poems

Solstice (Brunswick Square Gardens)

In this tree light congeals
into leaves more deeply serrated
by time and crossbreeding
than those of the kindred plane nearby –
rhododendron’s invasive, a sycamore’s
a kind of maple. Knowing that,
what do I know. That I talked
with you yesterday and trust you –
that I learn by ear a social ear –

‘Nothing in a garden is forever.
That’s why you’ve got to love it.’

Let’s jump the asymptotic limit
of infinite green and shining
anonymous orgasms.

The day suspended between an almost gone spring
and a summer unlaunched.
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