Tendrils reclaim a wall of their own, sun beggars up the chain link locking small climates of beauty in frame.
The meadow pops up in addict’s hideout, squatting at the church, a dirt mat under the elm, sloping concrete to mud river.
Is this dead end — a vagrant jewel — still serene knowing the nightly assaults of pissholes and discarded pipes?
Are the poppies any less refuge for the eye — or the stained glass reaching up the steeple, or the elm anchoring the alley in green light — when their vision is dangled over the trash — the skins of our damage?
Is the transcendent not galvanized in the frame of a chain link?
Jessica Lee McMillan © 2021