Maybe one day

you’ll visit the museum of trees.
Maybe one day, trailing behind the class

you’ll get ‘accidentally’ lost,

find yourself ducking under the ageless arms

of an oak, find yourself moving

quite alone, from beech to beech.
Maybe you’ll fantasize about a museum sleepover

where they let you set your spine

along the bough of a elm, in a mimicry of limbs

and maybe, when the museum air is still

and everyone else is sleeping

you’ll hear the willow whisper

through its thousand green mouths

behind discreet green fingers

the story of its youth.
Maybe one slow Sunday afternoon

you’ll beg from your mum

a few coins, to go again

and stare up at the myrtles

through glass, and realise

they miss their birds: 
but the museum of birds

is five blocks down

on the other side of the subway.
And maybe, nearly in tears

in front of a case of maples –

august in their mysticism,

and no-one to pray palm-to-palm with them –

you’ll let the sadness sublimate

from your eyes, down into your throat

ball up, shoot like fire into your fist

which will smash the case

and you’ll reach through the shards

to touch them, hold them

and your fingers will find
plastic. Only plastic.

Each bark-notch and leaf-line

machine made.
And you’ll leave the museum of trees

bleeding a little, bleeding a lot

all the way down the street

and you’ll never, ever return.