From the street,
she sees a hammock affixed
to some bare
elms in a city

park. A how to live
in urban green before
it greens. Bad
poetry never makes good

architecture. Good
architecture makes good

poetry if
the intentional flaw

doesn’t compromise
the structure. She wonders
how tight
those knots are tied.

Hothouse April

I collected them
from their metal button holes
in a women’s bathroom stall.
I tucked one 

behind your ear, the other
behind mine. I did what I could
with them: message
in red, in elongated green, 

message in true thorn.
I did
what I could.
Should I have 

taken them
with me when I left
your room at dawn? 

A perfect poem
of the ridiculous becomes
subtle, becomes two roses
crossed on a table 

we left behind
by choice,
we left behind
by choice,
say it twice
for both of us,
for what’s left of them.