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Jason J. Stevenson

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Evolution

When we first moved in
the house was still rough. Perhaps
that is why it seemed natural, with nails
and empty paint
cans outside, scattered like the twigs
and burrs and needles that sifted
through the tangled brush
on the hill where we scraped some away
to build. Those things took revenge
on the skin, when we walked
the lower half: poking, slicing, leaving
us itching--defending in a way that half
amused. What really hurt
was the weight of the other
houses and the bridge and the overpass
that towered over the little gully:
monolith of concrete blocking out the sky
where those who paid the quarter
could feel close to god as they zoomed
up and over. It hurt to see
the canyon stripped of refuge:
its temeritous guardians crushed by bulldozers,
its beautiful verdure giving way to drainage culverts
and a flat, barren landscape of raw
earth. No twigs, no needles--
just human order.

The stop lights kept marching
toward the dangerous
corner where I shot out each morning
in hopes I would not be hit by the dump
trucks, carrying away the waste
of grading projects where even more
houses would be put. More people who needed more
bridges, stop lights and concrete. More
human order. More humans and more
order.

We came out here to escape
that concourse, but as I looked
at the nails we drove and the paint
we smeared, I realized it was
inevitable--the products are bound
to obfuscate serenity,
enchanting, and then accommodating
until it makes way.

 

Page(s) 59

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