Some Sunken Urban Parks

don’t deserve to be
preserved. Sometimes
a smile is too

precious, a phrase too
slippery, a mirror
too polished, room

too clean, dog
too calm, child too
still, a bird
too blue. I might be

the street that got too
wide. But no tree
could ever be
too tall.


This is no Big Sur, Dingle
Peninsula, Wasque—
this is somewhere

in the middle. A river
that has starred
as the main character

in novels, caused cities to be
built, become a final stop
for the tormented

and despairing. It is a river
that should be frozen
by now. That only its fringes

cutting against its banks
are covered in a thin sheet
of ice is another story

that needs to be
told. And I’m no narrator
for the fresh or salt.