-Four Degrees

River red gum, ensaner in light and stretched as a wise jinn

We are 4 degrees to north and the biggest of tiny forests,

the smell of frying oil reaching this perfectly quiet afternoon.

.,.

The day is not yet gone, but the season leaves

the crawling insects and screeching birds lamenting

in grief and unison with runners--crafty percussionists

and bikes, strings and elements of wind.

.,.

For a time I feared the appearance of things not there

and, often, I feared the real and shut out all behind the guest room's curtains.

I wonder if it's a McDonald's I smell, on the side of Thombury,

from Fez's wetlands...

.,.

The swaying of blade-like tree leaves,

and the blue stuff ever present in my eyes,

Oh, my poor eyes.

And all of these things that look so beautiful

and may be so terrible.