Under the avenue under construction,
we are careful to count the reason the world slips 

its planter for exuberance,
pulled from the ash tree’s leaving. 

Tree hangs, pricking dead
grass. 

Grass grows long in the story
of the sewer’s construction. 

Sound lays its structure. 

A bulldozer buries its hands
in the bank. 

In the shutter’s opening, rain leaks
into the future.

Little hands. 

Our tremendous urge forward has a grip
of steel.

juliet patterson