This parking lot
hasn’t seen a car in thirty years
Prairie grass grows four feet tall
heaves concrete out of its way
without asking
Who else knows about the blackberries ripening here
besides the sun
Next door, graffiti bellows
WORLD IN TROUBLE
a slow revolution
clover and bindweed spill across pavement
chicory, joe pye weed seep into the streets
and those grasses four feet tall
flood the neighborhood with prairie
until it covers the city
until it covers the earth
waving with every gust of wind
this empty lot’s
only chance at freedom