Thursday, June 29, 2017


Under the commodious shade
of a poplar, the wind

indiscriminate through its
summer carapace
of leaves,

thought I could see, in broad daylight—Orion?
and The Big Dipper?

sketched in the furtive
freckles of a tiger

The blossom, common among its
sisters, was a pure grimace
of confession—

unblinking, staring straight and 
conscientiously skyward,
it delivered,

maternally—yet very matter-of-factly 
(like an old, matronly
administrator would):

well, how did you think all these
different things around here

the one place where they all fit together? 
Whether we choose to admit it 
or not makes no difference;

the fact is we're always, 
always, always, always—
living in a neighborhood.