Two Street Trees
To have lost the argument’s thread:
Events empty into their qualities,
just -nesses, residual in me, clot.
I walk under a late-blooming locust
into ambient grape soda—
a likeness such that the palate unacquainted
with artificial fruit
could not grasp the real tree’s bouquet.
It’s June. I’m in love with the reeking world.
Though I know that I am in it,
alone and with others,
I walk a thin space
cleared by doubt, counter doubt.
My questions baled,
my few important things
knock together at the bottom of a tote.
I walk into October
and wonder if by living
I have come to grasp negative dialectics
in a realm outside of thought.
One yellow branch cuts the green ginkgo,
of itself and not.