Will it bloom this year

Unreal river

whose engineered banks are bulldoze

built with injection chemicals and

snow-melt of March running between, enough

water to make the river a river

again, when in summer the banks

are dry from drought, heat

sucking sustenance from the fishes,

whose shit festers atop eggs

and clouds of sterile sperm

 

Unreal clearing

whose blue-jays compete with jackhammers

for the attention of my ears,

whose robins make nests of asbestos

within which baby birds lie lifeless

goop mixed with eggshells soft from pesticides

 

Unreal child,

whose sanitized scabs surrender resistance

to a world hostile,

whose playgrounds padded forbid

dangerous mettle

 

Unreal lights,

whose bulbs prevent the focus

of my eyes from seeing crickets in the grass at night and

invent constellations geometrical with shooting stars

red and blue screaming safety sirens

 

Unreal beings,

who are mother Earth polluting placenta

with cigarette smoke

this filth is internal