To the Field of Scotch Broom That Will Be Buried by the New Wing of the Mall
Half costume jewel, half parasite, you stood swaying to the music of cash registers in the distance while a helicopter chewed the linings of the clouds above the clear-cuts. And I forgave the pollen count while cabbage moths teased up my hair before your flowers fell apart when they turned into seeds. How resigned you were to your oblivion, unlistening to the cumuli as they swept past. And soon those gusts will mill you, when the backhoe comes to dredge your roots, but that is not what most impends, as the chopper descends to the hospital roof so that somebody's heart can be massaged back into its old habits. Mine went a little haywire at the crest of the road, on whose other side you lay in blossom. As if your purpose were to defibrillate me with a thousand electrodes, one volt each.