Spruce
Couldn’t cross the street
in grey feet
or greasy palms.
Slanted trees
and cardboard targeted
like poison ivy
or catching lady bugs.
Underground psalms, malapert.
Homemade creeks
of oily bins.
Blades curve plastic
and dig slippery pave.
Pivoted for homemade tears
under waning breezy days.
Toes cram echoes
and drag cell phones.
“Mijo!” she whistles.
Lighting flies.
It’s time to go home.
Infertile Naturalists
Blades embedded on seats
as legs spread out
seeping the sheets.
Baking inspirations and
treating concentration.
Heat pens the pages.
Leaves flutter through
intertwined wires,
invisibly concealing headlights.
Slashing shadows,
stabbing granite.
They texturize the dirt
and burn, stuck to the pave.
Breathing hair pre-heated in thick humid.
The breeze filled into the flickering leaves.
A never-ending story of patient sunshine
concluded with a stubborn air.
