such sadness
the pollarding of the trees
in suburban silence
all the doors locked on every street
the fingers point skyward
if any of the rush do deem to see
do ever deem it worth a look up
and down the same streets they go
frozen in each concreted row
beautiful in bark and sometimes leaf
who deemed it thus i want to know
what curtailment of aspiration
lent lead to the planner’s pencil
turned not to gold
along the old alchemy
facades of sad
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