Not a Whisper

Take the walking cure.
Don’t say a word
about miles or hills or wind.
About urban wildlife
encountered along the way.

A tree talks to itself
with a German accent.
But when it warns neighbors
in the grove
of impending danger

(a hurricane or man
with an ax)
through the wood wide web
fungal network,
no accent can be detected.

Be prepared
to crush all rebar
poems. Grind them
into a fine powder
to sprinkle over

next week’s hoarding
of stanzas.
Don’t ask Siri.
She can’t help
you now.

The express train
won’t stop here.
The third rail knows
something about keeping
the fallen alive

by administering sweet juice
through hidden roots.
Take it
at face value—
be cured.

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