The red of those fuchsias,
Those skinny ballet-dancers hanging from a few tall stems over the front wall,
Was not red for informational purposes.
Was not red, just so that they might be briefly recognised.
Not red, just for the fucking service of you.
No, the red, that red, was an honour, an education.
It was a red that was before red.
A red that reminds you that you’re alive, unsafe.
That this, this arrow slit is open both sides
And you might just find those flowers
Fly right through at you and colour all over the back of your brain
Leaving you, as you turn to look at something else,
Feeling shaken,
Drawn over,
Taught something.
Constant Voice 