My City Is Buried
Birds have pushed it under with their probing beaks. They have buried my city and now I must be patient, columbines nodding their spurs in the wind, reaching their roots down into my city, my noise—the spider web of the walnut’s buried arms, its feet waving at the stars. Like me it holds out its body toward the city, strains, torn between the city’s streets and the stars’ absent singing. The city cannot compete, it is too buried. It is half forgotten, it is dangerous, but even the roses only reach up with their cupped colors to cantilever over the city’s stopped mouth.