I don’t think about the city here. Even as I say
sweet steel, scent of stink and sewer, people pushing
by without touching, even as I say glass and timber,
those neon flashes, the man who tells me
when and where to walk. Even as I say
those things, I can’t remember the senses of them,
my soul’s reflection held captive in every window.
There is a city we’re going to with a ban on all
advertising, signs, graffiti, lingering cigarette smoke
stains, phone numbers on walls, lost pet posters.
How will I find the candy stores, the whiskered kitty,
my way? All that’s left is what’s left. Or right.
The forest doesn’t build straight lines. The forest doesn’t
build. What if we grew cities from the ground
up? Rooting would be necessary, wanderlust a dream.
I’d open my map and my whole life would have
grown legs. If I built a tree, I would make it too perfect.
Nothing would live. I want to plant my feet and grow,
crooked as the sky, until my fingers touch the bottom
of your feet as you rest there, in your garden of cloud.
Image taken with iPhone, of the redwoods, somewhere on the western coast.
Words written in the leather chair.
Ears On Heather Nova
Time Taken four or so minutes.
Brain On the novel and my new story about the devil.