Outside
their crumbling houses
and tumble-
down apartmentscalm
obdurate elm trees,
though
dormant,
still push back
hard against
immense and
intransigent skies.
And the March wind
makes music
with the bare branches,
but it never
writes lyrics.
Those, they supply
for themselves
going by, whistling
low, wondering: what chance?
can a man—so supple
by comparison,
so submissive,
and perennially
stuck in this gap
between
the dead earth
and the living,
breathing heavens—
possibly stand?
