I don’t believe in poetry

the poet said to the plant

trying to be a tree

in the rubble of the city.



I believe in your assembly

the poet said to the sticks of wood

holding up the fragile seedling

like an art piece.



Your form is the future

the poet offered the construction

unaware what that was

saying about it all.



Then the testing of the midnight breeze

and the leaves passed

all that they could

to the poet.



Leaning is a kind of stand

the plant revealed

over and over to the poet

buried in the sidewalk exchange.

A fire hydrant is a kind of fire hydrant

the plant broke down to the poet

trying to be a poem

in the rubble of the city.