From the Cessna-172 to the Suburbs

Your alleys are too large
From the air it looks like gridlock
The square ink of asphalt,
drawn shapes in the sprawling
It is sad to me that you have no 
slender yellow companions
Caught on fire 
in the coolness of fall.
Dew falls on them,
dawn glistening,
in liquid ornamentation.
And how do you push on
thinking like the rest?
Picking syllables,
never shooting from the hip
because of its inaccuracy.
Surely surely 
I say to you
in all the days of my life 
I will never claim
that order is victorious
nor will I envy of one on its side
Disorder breeds 
a spattering of color in the
which sits perfectly
between dog days and births
of small little saviors.


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