To find the path
you must unimagine the street
paved over ladyslippers and lupine
ignore the cloned homes and their gardens
those twelve square feet of ennui.
If the birch tree still stands
then keep going. Pay little mind
to the dog, barking at the surprise
of you. He too is a relic. The past
is not nostalgic. It whimpers
its way back. The pink and orange
failures, the beads you wore like little pieces
of hope. Look, here is a pick and the axe.

Roll up your sleeves. Don’t leave the world until you do.