Singapore

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It could only happen in gardens. 
Confessions that tear at the full marrow 
of our lives. Intimacies raptured, 
the solitude we guard in our core 
shifts in our daily attempts at virtue. 
How hard it is to speak, how little 
suddenly is left of us. Against the day’s zenith, 
there is no denial. Only this vintage wine
that laces our tongues with surrender
among these green sunken meadows, 
watered regularly for display. Patterns 
winnowed to perfection. Our memory 
of green woken again to the flora
that attend our age and vocation. 
From temperate to tropical, encased 
in tempered glasses, flown 
into cities manicured to discipline, 
these blossoms raging 
for the open fields.