A man in an alleyway sits enthroned on fermenting garbage.
An untamed hedge is creeping across his jaw.
He has no name, and he smells like the earth,
Like damp coffee grounds in the evening,
Hot puddles from a garden hose in the morning,
Grass clippings filling them like archipelagos.
Spiritless needles spun the fibers that coat his limbs and soak up his sweat.
Airborne soot colors his lungs and the creases in his joints.
Broken pavement breaks his skin and rebuilds it stronger and wiser.
The steel that wove his clothing,
The smog he takes as oxygen,
Each drop of artificial stone clogging the city’s arteries,
All call the stars mother.
He was born alongside time.
He knows that beauty is found in more than green,
And only when all surrenders can he cease.
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