Down in the woods where no one goes we found
a village not yet built. But first, the trees:
trails hid their ends in snarls of vine; water
murmured somewhere, useless, far from any
faucet. Where the trees stopped, a shopping cart
rusted. We strolled a cul-de-sac of broom
on sidewalks fitted with streetlights. No houses
or foundations; branches loosed in the last
storm filled the empty street. Someone had
dreams
for this, as someone dreamed the nuclear
reactor that would empty the streets
of Chernobyl: there, an elephant slide rests
in leaves larger than a child’s face. No
one
plays. Those absent voices make these weeds move.
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