| The trial Alone. Sitting by Miles' grave in Greenwood August diffused by the shade of ailanthus. I remember concerts and heroin on the Great Lawn after 1 am. (I was just a child then) Underneath a blanket of needles in the Pinetum I would nod looking through a haze at Olmsted's collaboration and breathing. Waiting. The multilevel drift; High above the concrete in the heather garden walking west towards the Inwood forest. I will not go to Queens I'll stay by the Hudson, framed by the tulips' columnar trunks Or the Botanical in Brooklyn, and smell the East River's sting on the fast wind. Or I will die near Riverdale. And from the gates of the publishing magnate temples near the copper beeches let my body float out with the late summer rushes. |