I hate the sight of the lonely trees in parks
or in front of people’s houses
or on the sides of roads in narrow strips.
If I could lose the road
in the forest I’d wander
through the years eating
grubs and leeks and doves
with my body to teach me love
The other people
constantly about on a cell phone
with their infectious hellos and drive-in’s
could be tricked out
The city visions are not life’s
glory or the moist forest floor.
The wheel on the bike path is not
the hollow notes of sticks on trunks.
The tang of the paper mill is
not a fresh bundle of cedar
The city is an ice cream truck
with meth head driver.
Someday a road will fell the last of a forest.
Some chain store or lawyer’s office will take
the spruces’ and maples’ thunder and the wish
of the leaves and the heart of the forest will be myth.
It will be a jump of machinery.
It will be a thump of humanity.
It will be a hump of death and waste and rebirth.