Saturday, April 19, 2014


by Christine Fojas

sometimes I mourn the skies
above the city
sparse of birdsong
and canopies
of trees free
to grow their full handspans,
above and below

time turns grass over
land parceled out
now put to use
as if the rural air
was becoming obsolete--
my neighbors used to keep
pigs and doves, squeals and coos
were my lullabies. now,
there is only one last kind
of bird, landing on thin
and narrow trees by my barred
window, singing lonely songs.

the city is city through
and through, hard at the core
posts at every corner
carrying wire that bisects
my skies
and tangles tree branches.

the trees are clipped
and boxed. the birds die out.

and we--who are clipped
and boxed ourselves--we
have already scorned the world
outside our barred windows
for the worlds we have made

a world of restarts,
and without entropy, a virtual
canopy that shields us
from the sun's piercing truths.

even grief fades away
like another dream
in the chain-of-dreams
that screens my waking day.

I have been writing poems about this for a long time. Inspired by napowrimo prompt of sea shell names called "sparse dove."

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