.
.
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 of as 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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