Forest Park, Portland
By a bench dedicated
to "My Dogs, Blossom and Denver," a couple passes me.
We exchange greetings, and the man asks, "Where
on the East Coast are you from?" "New York," I
reply. "Manhattan?" "Brooklyn.
But it's been a long time since I've been there." "It never leaves," he laughs.
I try to conjure
the oracular spirit of this olden place. A slight breeze riffles
creek. Tall trees that make their way up amongst thousands of
other species without what
we can see.
the edge of our
is what can