less than 1 minute read

Blackbirds sing from the only tree
left standing on land scrubbed clean.
I am watching these buildings awake
as hidden beaks and wings call to light;

Come, illuminate this concrete plaza,
turn our pavements holy. Cranes
and scaffolding will be brass statues
dipped in the rising sun. There’s still
a chance for this deforested city.
The long night is never forever.



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