on the edges of where i live
the trees end in a perfect line
  standing against the new
houses built on hard designs
and i hated them all, on walks
where they leveled the deep
woods where my fantasies first
found footings on slippery wet ferns
  gone now, sold to hundreds
  humans, family, strangers
at night, in the still remaining
trees i walk among them, families
in lit spaces, closed in, doing
the things that families do
  and i can tell it:
the smell of fresh laundry venting,
dinner, with garlic or an outdoor grill,
car lights, pulling in and a kid running
out to see what he might get from dad
  while a part, despite
  the vast desolation
  they brought, oblivious to all
  life that thrived before them
i find my heart
  breaking
not for the history they took
  or now missing dreams
but for the simple stories inside
being alive as they might in boxes
with all their new dreams meaning more
  far more, than my memories of all
  the life they will never know