On 2nd St, north of Las Olas: an avocado
On 14th Ave, north of 1st, in an alley: a rose apple
In the empty lot on 15th by the park, across from the Greek Orthodox Church,
a little south of Sunrise, a glory of a mango.
I fed myself all summer on fruits fallen from these trees,
on rosemary nicked from roadside planters,
on nasturtiums culled unknowing from prissy restaurant facings.
This city is a forest. This city is a garden. This city is a book
in a language I have learned to read from
the grackles. I will turn the pages with fingers
stickied by mango pulp. I will turn the pages slowly
so I don’t come to the end.
We know what happened to all the great forests,
and what goes on in gardens.
I don’t like the way it ends.