At first all I see
is his red bliss potato
nose
as he caresses the bark
on the giant silver maple
that has absorbed the fence
between our yards.
Look at those,
he says,
and now I see stray limbs
that grow straight down
before arcing up to reach sunlight
denied by the dark canopy
of the rest of the tree.
Is there any better explanation
for the persistence of dive bars and brothels –
low spaces
where the struggle for light
is carried out?
