In the green of San Francisco’s
Central Park, a 50 year old man
on a bench looks hard at a
teenager bent over to drink
from a fountain. He disengages
with a confidence, consuming
yellow crackers.

Teenagers understand it,
that they are being surveyed—
and they are not angry.
They are always half-aware
that they have been loosed
into the primal world
where their young bodies
are used to sell picture frames.
They are eager to be safe,
to be locked inside cages.

In Ireland, there is a hillside,
green with sweet grasses,
reflected perfectly
in a winding river.
White sheep dot the green
field like pasty cotton
clouds dot the blue sky.
A brilliant white wolf leans
down, mouthing the grass,
slowly inching toward a lamb.
In the river’s reflection, it all looks
the same.