New Theories of Ecstasy

My city’s life takes place not least in her embrace

of trees, her stony dirt the "arms" they seem content

to grow in. But I don’t much (as such) like Nature:

that is, as it’s ideally conceived: a pristine space

in which no human intervention ought to leave a trace.

I’d as soon say swallows’ nests are artificial as some

say that glassy boxy buildings are. What is Nature

but the product of detritus from a blasted star?

Porno vendors, middle schools and K-marts

all are natural. Snarkiness is too, and so’s a Cuisinart.

All of that apart, my heart is nonetheless more

swiftly lost to fallen leaves than to Manhattan stores:

not because they come from trees, but because they 

are what Keats reminded us must always hold the truth.

They’re beautiful. Immutable and mutable. They crack

the whip of wonder quietly. Watching oak leaves 

float in city puddles easily relieves anxiety. Muddles

lessen at a glance. New theories of ecstasy advance.

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