Driving at high speeds
rain drops as tears on the windshield
Suck in and breathe the question
The tar has scorched the field
Townhouses emerge like burning pustules
rising and rushing to the surface
and the thousands are stacked upon thousands
Can the blurring faces in Union Station really be compared
to the petals on a long, black bough

The sprinklers spin to green the grass
while the weeds are thrashed
like a long woman getting a manicure
and mulch is bought to match the spindles
of weak trees that line the street
Children play without knowing to ask about the secret
without lying in the forest
under the green cave
wondering if the trees and leaves and birds can talk

Perhaps they do
Perhaps the highways are palmistry stretched across land
waiting to be read
Perhaps the sloping farmer's field is not a conquered space
just a necessary one
and we are begged to watch and love
the swelling



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