The wildest place I know
Is a green traffic island
Circumscribed by an entrance ramp to the New Jersey Turnpike.
Maple and sassafras,
Chicory and Queen Anne’s Lace,
Liberated wrappers from a fast food array.
I imagine the squirrels
And feral cats.
The mice and butterflies.
The homeless encampment of not-so-young men,
Their trash arranged in a simulacrum of possession.
And what we possess:
A wildness bounded by traffic,
A comfort born of an obstructed view.
I bury my face in the nap of your sweater
And feel your fingers in my hair.
There were sounds from the yard--
Wind or rain,
The distant voices of children at play.
I glance quickly as I drive by,
My eyes to echo the reflected light of towers.
Soren Haas
Is a green traffic island
Circumscribed by an entrance ramp to the New Jersey Turnpike.
Maple and sassafras,
Chicory and Queen Anne’s Lace,
Liberated wrappers from a fast food array.
I imagine the squirrels
And feral cats.
The mice and butterflies.
The homeless encampment of not-so-young men,
Their trash arranged in a simulacrum of possession.
And what we possess:
A wildness bounded by traffic,
A comfort born of an obstructed view.
I bury my face in the nap of your sweater
And feel your fingers in my hair.
There were sounds from the yard--
Wind or rain,
The distant voices of children at play.
I glance quickly as I drive by,
My eyes to echo the reflected light of towers.
Soren Haas