What sense will come

Upon the backs

Of salesman tongues

And clothing racks?

Is therapy

A slowing down,

A purchasing

of quiet sound

Inside the mind

That overheats

From lack of time,

Work’s entropy?

I have a guess,

But in that lies

The patient mess

Of missing trees,

Their lovely dance,

The taste of Spring.

To rest one’s hands

Among the green,

To substitute

The work of God

To force the brute

of a lover’s nod.