The light is green, synthetic.
It steals between leaves, over floors,
breezes up walls, remembers last night’s
rainfall, its traces of fluorescence.
Flashes of colour shriek below domed
ceilings, land on far balconies, curl
around ropes of ivy, dip and preen.
We gather strange, nameless fruits
from designated trees.
Revolving orbs resume their humming.
Bewitched by cool beams of chloro-lamps,
luna moths descend from the canopy,
dissolve us in their whirring phosphorescence.
No one will find us here.
From outside we are barely visible:
just glimpses between fronds and fans of leaf,
our paths eclipsed by mighty tigers.