by Eli Parker
Artwork by Alli Rowe
My polluted helpings, heaps
of trash quietly eaten by maggots.
These are relegated to distance
when pine, struck in sublime tempo by Jove’s pick,
I hear singing.
Listen, the needles are shimmering.
I am pleased at the sound of
a forest fire’s crackling melody
when it dooms to grey my golden calves
and beats away the ashes.
The noise of the constructed world
is mighty and due respect,
but have it wander not into my cloudless workspace,
onto my oak desk and dirt floor.
It does not belong there.
A city’s crumpled life,
I cannot walk merely down the concrete paths onto which I was born.
I seek the paradox of the mountains and of the valleys to supplement,
where noise is escaped and sound is embraced.