I Am Not Hamlet

All right, so you don't want to take the ecology challenge.  Maybe you'll read a poem.  This was written, I dunno, a year or two ago. Bag of Bones It was an opossum,  now it’s only a pile                                  of gore  on the hundred and eight  degree pavement of Six                                         Mile. Bloody tire track impressed  in the carcass, splintering  bones and squeezing the life  out of organs.                          We drive on past, not giving ...

Ahead, in the sky a ragged edge of cloud, tinged white-gold, behind the gray concretesteelglassscape. Such a scene makes you hope the city could rise again: green, alive.

Trees arc up and ex- plode in colors of white, magenta, and green. Fuzzy red ma- ple buds stretch out like fingers too long curled in winter; yellow birch catkins aren't ashamed to obey gra- vity. Magnoli- a petals undress and leave a mess un- derneath. Soon, the co- lored conflagration will occur below our necks. And the trees only crown green. 1st drafts shouldn't be published! 2nd draft 4-30