by Mike Switzer
Skyscrapers rake the air in a perverted photosynthesis,
scratching at the energy they need to carry on living.
It takes so little and there is much to spare;
Earth is more robust than the tower cares to admit.
Once, one of them escaped to the forest, to compete with the trees;
it didn't work out. They found it, felled, in a field of lavender. The smells
proved too much.
Later, the steel beams rooted
and an apple tree grew from the decaying corpse;
too bad we all hate granny smiths.