At Kew Gardens, it rests in a shallow pool.
Platen leaves radiate, nourished
by cable-like stalks, centrally anchored.
The palms are airy and colossal; the flower
secret, infolded, one day surfaces
like an alligator eye, then descends again.
It is Victoria Amazonia, a gift of empire.
Here, as I turn its leaf, you will note
the protective spikes, the grillwork
of buoyant capillaries, the perfect
angled edges which act as bumpers.
Its flower smells of pineapple.
It does well here: we
have learned its rhythms.
Steam pipes heat its pond; convection
through glass panels adds to this.
Each wilt and burn, each flowering
and decay, is recorded.
Look up…
Notice the construction of its house.
Those ribs and spars: are they not
its pericarp sectioned out
and made consecutive across a span?
It teaches us, when we see.
Its lines, its modulations, resolve
into simple forms, as in a painting:
feathery at the edges until the eye
settles on a kind of depth, a centrality
just beyond the glossy, refracted stillness,
a place of origin or perhaps perfection.
Notice this; notice that you are in ecstasy.
Its leaves and water are as a single thing;
its fibers less distinctive than before.
Its inflorescence is an instance,
the glass around it is an instance:
vita rustica and vita urbana.
It is Victoria; empire made it.
The world it seeks is beyond
the condensate glass, the vague
and foggy forms mounting, gently swaying.
It was here before us and will remain.
Let us go, let us settle near it.
