A General Westward

This isn’t the type of place where the birds hum like bees.
An elegance floats in these airs. an elegance with a firm line.

So tear me up and call me “trenchant,” or maybe just “trenched;”
we’re all stuck, but a mudpit can only go so far before hitting crust.

Black-Eyed Susans make the lawn, marking dawn,
and it's rare to find a whole city just a futuristic graveyard.

But darting skyward what else is there but palms and sun?
Neither indigenous to methodical wastelands, no matter the season.

Grafting limbs and lawns, hymns and haws,
spectacular craftsmanship by people who remember dreams,

but can’t recollect past lives. They may only visit
solemn things to-be, and avenues not yet constructed.

These are the visionaries we’ve envisioned ourselves—
black as markets,
calm as stockades,
brittle and foreboding 
as time’s myriad passageways.

Enjoyment hallows our halls, and scars our shallows,
blankets our yards in thick, red and white checkers,

breezy and alone – skittering cloth beneath our shoes.
It’s high noon for everything but us.

A balanced framework hides us and guides us,
but it’s petals that mark our progress. Ringing outward

in yearly, cyclic, patterns. Draped thoroughly around
everything. And that’s just what we always need.

Believing is only the last step, but mark my words,
This place is due for its beliefs.

-[m]