Three Hundred Fifty Five Million

The waveform people took it.
The form of love between us,
the gravity.
Back to their mansion in the woods,
on a planet
three hundred fifty five million
light years away.
Can you see it leaving in the city?
In every city on the planet,
past the grimey stains
on subway stairs.
The people leaving the cities
to live like the waveform people,
in their woods
three hundred fifty five million
light years away.
Let them walk upon earth and snow
in the winter.

Said the waveform people.
Let them cherish their human
manners.

But the mansion is not there.
Only the blue sky
of the waveform people above.

The Trees Have Been My Friends

The trees have been my friends.

When oblivious businessmen
go to their upscale gyms and afterwards
clink their glasses of red wine
together over steak dinners
I will be able to say
I was nestled in a house of impoverished people
where I dreamed the ancient dreams
of the microcellular arrangements
from a very long time ago
and there beside it,
though not in sterile air conditioned
air,
there, on the stagnant outskirts of an
industrially polluted city,
there the trees have still come to live
and the trees,
the trees still loved me,
the trees still loved them,

and the trees have been my friends.