The sidewalk is sterilized white.
I could eat off its sunlight.
People creep along it like spiders
who could shrink in the heat, leave
this world without their dark webs
I watch this from a window
in an air-conditioned room, a screen
in front of me telling me who is dead,
from bombs, from guns, knives, stars.
I don’t want this knowledge.
Instead, I wish to climb green trees,
where every leaf knows what to do,
bud further upward, branches’
octopus arms reaching for the sun,
catching what it can in its growth.