Nineteen stories, our sapling sentinel
To the vaguely gothic upper reaches,
Perched as a final natural warning
To urban nights
On a balcony thrust against the glare
Of banks and offices.
I made my way through the rickety door
(Via the window, the forbidden unlocked)
To find a grey field of cinderblock tile,
Plants swept out with soil;
The lone son born a chance seed, sacrificed
On the city's façade.
My sleeping bag went out onto that ledge,
Bricks shifting and knocking, wood chips under me.
I heard through the night the animal that
Devoured my tree.
I awoke under glint of great tinsel beasts
Clutching in vain for shade.