October 20, 2000
Surely this landfill is "land", made of flattened cans,
disposable diapers, gravel, garbage, mud flats, old bones.
Cars park on it beneath my window, and city blocks emerge
where cranes laid eggs: town hall, library, bridge.
Only, problems occur. In high rain streets slide mud,
drop onto traffic below oozy grass lifted from your yard.
Gentlemen: perhaps the "land" does not concur. Would choose
another form, prefer to lie elsewhere, find
another latitude, change names, turn an open coat
ah, revealing deep breasts and an emerald pendant,
the chain encircling her throbbing throat.