Firm is the sandpaper stone beneath me,
unlike
the earth.
Structure
surrounds me
in rigid lines made
of black, hard metals
and shiny, frozen
panes of glass,
reflecting
the twigs of the trees
that dot the sidewalk.
They are
so different
from the winding timber types
that reach up to grasp a sky
unpolluted.
Structure
surrounds me,
admitting
no winding creeks,
no crawling moss,
no scattered rocks.
The buildings plummet up,
jutting
into that carbon sky.
The crowd and the bustle
and the shine of it all
invade me
and disturb me.
While a hundred miles away,
the songbirds sing
their freedom canticles
and fluttering, fluttering,
perch on a twig stretched
for heaven –
so gentle, not one leaf
is
dislodged from the bark.
