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.