It Is Not Happening Anymore

It is not happening anymore.
The moths in the lightcup are dusty.
The buildings have ballooned from their puddles
and stand in menace.
The snowmelt is black and polluted and goods
still truck into storefronts.

They don’t want you to know.
Your shoes won’t take you anywhere new.
An odd elm looms from a space between two panels of cement.
You could balloon out of your skin like snowmelt,
wet the twist ties and wrappers and odd oak twigs
in waste spring puddles.

It is not happening anymore.
Someone whispers from the ceiling,
the trees should not be there,
the parks and the roads are wrong.
Someone whispers from the clouds,
who painted us?
No one whispers from the building tops,
Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack.

They do not want you to know.
The cinnamon bread is becoming a puddle.The moths in the lightcup are dusty.
Someone pasted comics on the lampposts.
The panels in order pass at the pace of
people in bus lines and
people with coats and bags going.

It happens no more.
They will bring you to a golden room
with velvet trim.
There is a pot of soup on the stove
a bowl and spoon in your hands.
They want you to forget you saw—
they want you to unhand the saw.
You may not spill like snowmelt for
they have given you comfort.

Do not coddle trees with pity.
They are not dotted upon the city like smallpox.
They are not so dense and reckless.
Walk inside the panels. Good.
Eat the soup. Go to work.
Don’t forget your errands.


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