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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