Everything is perfect
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
of lawnmowers. Sublimation
s 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