A poem without trees

would be nice. Nor sussuration
of the woman's pants whose
just walked past me amongst
the litter-flap of so much
information, leaves.

& then there's glass.
It sharpens light near
the rolling bottle cap
-someone's party leavings.
Well,the moon was full
the other night.

It 'briefly conquered darkness.'
But now, beneath this vacant blue
the smell of sewage comes off
the ocean and without meaning
to I see I've mentioned everything.