What we fear may not come to pass. Though the wind this year has been violent, and the sky rainless, the tree we planted
Here on Tonawanda Street, the drunk mechanic’s wife is launching rafts of pansies. In other yards, tulips’ scarlet and gold, azalea’s coral bursts, columbine,
Once there was an undirected graph an arbiter between earth and sky a happy conflict between the line and none, the back and forth