DOROTHY FRIEDMAN
ECOLOGY
It
is time to tell the air terrible days.
Warn it of white summers
in squared courtyards and forgotten churches.
It
is time to induce humanity.
The air must be off there somewhere,
perhaps in that warehouse,
hiding under shoes.
There are sides to paper torn from books.
There are outsides of glasses.
And inside thoughts struggle.
There are excuses.
People are drowning here and trees.
Sweat is terrible on mouths behind woods.
Today we move among the branches, dividing.
The forest thins to nothing but two fine twigs.
The music bursts round torn branches
hung alone and growing old up there.
