Bread

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.

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