I’ve never heard a
nightingale sing, but I
know where blue
bees hide—not in this
metropolis.

City winds do not
speak to me like they do in
the forest, only tearless 
laments.

I meet an original god 
in every neighborhood, as
common as dandelions 
growing through cracks in 
the sidewalks.

Aesthetically planted, 
never pruned trees 
appear more lifeless than 
the concrete horse crumbling 
in the decaying street 
corner cemetery. 

A young woman visits
there frequently, talking
aloud for long hours. 

But not to my winds.