The park admits the wind，

    the petals¹ lift and scatter²

    like versions of myself I was on the verge³

    of becoming； and ten years on

    and ten blocks down I still can‘t tell

    whether this dispersal resembles

    a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

    But the petals scatter faster，

    seeking the rose， the cigarette vendor⁴，

    and at least I‘ve got by pumping heart

    some rules of conduct： refuse to choose

    between turning pages and turning heads

    though the stubborn dine alone. Get over

    “getting over”： dark clouds don‘t fade

    but drift with ever deeper colors.

    Give up on rooted happiness

    （the stolid⁵ trees on fire！） and sweet reprieve⁶

    （a poor park but my own） will follow.

    There is still a chance the empty gazebo

    will draw crowds from the greater world.

    And meanwhile， meanwhile‘s far from nothing：

    the humming moment， the rustle of cherry trees