City crowds can move as smoothly as threads through silk.

Buildings rise to heights even light dares to tread. Ask the dead.

Everything seems like it’s replaceable. Who needs iron-infused creeks

where stoplights shine red?

I once cared about diffused summer light

under myrtle trees and measuring the degrees of dampness

from the rain in my hair on my ambles from sandbar to spring.

The garden gate was always open. Deer and rabbits can’t hurt

a fence that won’t be fixed. I can no longer ignore

the glow of moonlight off the edges of leaves

in their sleep caught between the evening breeze,

sleeping bees, careful caterpillars, and songs between trees.