Everything is perfect here.
Hopeless saplings aligned
Empty grid tension of the open space, trees groaning and straining to fill it
And you want, like them, to vomit your soul up into the hungry sky,
Where it will have something less than perfect to dance
Intervals of lawnmowers. Sublimations of barbecues.

Then you come around the corner

An old oak
Smiles with wisdom, embracing a hole in this grid
An anomaly that leads to a dirty place, a place fertile with flaws
And bugs in black mud, where you watch your step.

Pastel houses infinite, outside
Roots go under, endless, inside

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.