Is there anybody in the park?
When I arrive there late
my fist is grazed
by the raw iron gate
but the catch slips
and I am with the trees
listening to the ever buzzing
of cicadas the humming of
Sibelius and the sound of a wing brushing by

The bark holds on
a brittle magnified skin
more divine and elegant
than our sloughing cover
our coughing splutter
and gasping breath
that the trees lap up
cleaning the air