Friday, May 10, 2013


Here and
there I went longing 

for the forest—
up and down 
Division projecting finches hopping 
happy in the mulch.

There are no fresh 

out here—only ends 
of planes which are lined 
with more planes edged 
with shops dotted with 
plots planned for rows of eventual trees— 

but walking circles, every 
pull must be a push;
every breath, 
a rush.