Mark Prince

Three Poems

Lorna Grove

This is as far as street view goes.
New green chainlink swelled by greenery.
Sky-coloured puddles network into a pond’s skyscape.
A warning sign encircles a family
of slashed and circled pictograms. Analogy is enclosure.

I am looking for where the woods have the furthest to go
before hitting road. An interior, off-path,
too negligible to plot. To verify
a former nursery’s site from a scent
mistaken for it. Green tie wires twined vines fast-

forwarding to reddish green, greenish red, as if to prevent
what they were nurturing. Each step extends
a lapse in visibility and measure
that must back onto landfill or lot. Encroaching
hammering. A runnel’s traffic. Yet, in the midst of it,

woolly seed stuff matts the undergrowth
like afterbirth. Inscrutably visored waterbirds pad a bank
tide-marked with foam. The litter is synthetic,
historic. All ways resolve to exits I know.
I depend on their not being connectable.

It is always an overcast three in the afternoon.
No need for sky to compass.
The seed, the fruit, the trash have left no scent,
no lacunae in the record, nowhere from where
there is no way back to the road.


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