Creosote bled onto the sidewalk.
At a glance the telephone pole
was dissolving into its shadow.
But the edges weren’t clean
and the puddle wouldn’t ripple in the breeze.
The fir was sugared by steel climber teeth
and thousands of staples left behind
from flyers you posted with your
friends’ stupid words--they
disintegrate in holly bushes,
clog grates, line crows’ nests.
It’s dead for what looks like a long time.
Must have been this hot summer.