The trees in New York are so much wavier.There are different layers of opposites.Cattails in front of my nose, that house on the hill is staring into my eyes.I’m beginning to trust my gut more lately and I’ve been lucky not to blend into a peach fuzz through your eyes.  Glycerin, arsenic, atomic bubbles.The science of art is purely accidental.Everything sounds different in the state of New York.It’s like a cop flashing their light in your face, you can’t see anything but the light.  She said it was on “the first Earth Day” and she was clearly the radish.*Iridized, sodium leeches out from the glass.He looks for something new in between all the pieces and she asks, “What do you see?” “Density.”  Though I’m miles away, somehow you still stir my lungs.Shaggy trees do you dance? Shake me.Television tubes inform the colour.Glass is the stone you can pour out.Pepper spray is for sale with the fireworks, but you probably don’t need that. *radish of the people salad. The people who make up a group to accomplish one thing.

This poem is about: 
My community


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