my new hobby is to stroll down streets
named for presidents and ordinal numbers
broad boulevards flanked with the tallest of hedgerows
fashioned to conceal the secrets which lie therein.
the contemplation of bodies physical,
taut as cello strings drawn out in desire,
quick pizzicatos punctuated by languorous legatos
the silence barely accented by the breath
of willow and of spruce.
These thoughts belong to no one,
they are not mine and they will never be.
I gave up my claim to them when my eyes grew tired
and searched, longingly, for something beyond the
painstakingly severe sap-coated border
that I had signed on to, for better or worse,
so many tree rings before.
