"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