deepundergroundpoetry.com
Central Park
For a moment, what we see about us
Appears certain and composed,
Where people move with an ease
Of drifting waterlilies, as if suggesting
An oasis among mausoleums.
"Perhaps this isn't natural," you say,
Suspecting a new language has taken over
The horticulturist's dream—
And you still believe this, while drowsily
Sitting around vast, obsidian pools,
Ignoring the day's essentials, as riderless
Boats scud across the murky water.
Appears certain and composed,
Where people move with an ease
Of drifting waterlilies, as if suggesting
An oasis among mausoleums.
"Perhaps this isn't natural," you say,
Suspecting a new language has taken over
The horticulturist's dream—
And you still believe this, while drowsily
Sitting around vast, obsidian pools,
Ignoring the day's essentials, as riderless
Boats scud across the murky water.
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