"Look", she says
eyes at the garbage-monolith
feet comb the tall grass


rain poised to attack
clouds over the fabricate jungle


"the squirrels are conspiring," she warns
She's right-
I hear them whisper in trees
acorn grenades in hand
to attack from the soda can tenements.



to walk over logs
No, she climbs

tip-toe arms outstretched
crucified on the air



and the power lines overhead
converge through the woods for us watching
treading the wasteland patchwork