"Look", she
says
eyes at the
garbage-monolith
feet comb the tall grass
rain poised to
attack
clouds
over this imitation jungle
"the
squirrels conspire,"
she warns
She's
right-
I hear them
whisper in trees
acorn
grenades in hand
to attack from soda can
tenements.
to walk over
logs
No, she
climbs
tip-toe arms outstretched
crucified on the air
and the power lines
overhead
tear through the woods for us watching
thread of the
wasteland patchwork