Houses Lined Up

Houses lined up Like gray
military recruits.
Entering each garden
—where no flowers or fruits can grow—
I then survey
the soil and dig for roots.

Tragedy of the Little Goat

The moonlit rows of roses guard
my garden's grace.  They taste so good 
to Goldberg's goat.  It coughs and burps 
and rams my door.  Gobbles my reds,
repays in dung.  The scent of stool
should guard my plot.  I shake my head,
I sigh, sit down.  But soon it's she
who turns and eats, my full goatee.

From High Up Here

From high up here, it's crystal clear:
His graded garden down the street—
its charcoal soil, the ancient bed
of colored life, the humid home
of carrots, pumpkins, yams, and corn;
tomatoes, radish, luscious beets;
cilantro, okra, tasty peas;
and melons (huge and juicy, near 
the orchid flowers); planted, grown,
and toiled upon for many hours
by swarthy hands that hurt, in gloves;
with grace and zeal, unsullied love—
resembles any other dirt.