Freeway 280

    Las casitas near the gray cannery，

    nestled amid wild abrazos of climbing roses

    and man-high red geraniums

    are gone now.  The freeway conceals¹ it

    all beneath a raised scar.

    But under the fake windsounds of the open lanes，

    in the abandoned lots below， new grasses sprout²，

    wild mustard remembers， old gardens

    come back stronger than they were，

    trees have been left standing³ in their yards.

    Albaricoqueros， cerezos， nogales . . .

    Viejitas come here with paper bags to gather greens.

    Espinaca， verdolagas， yerbabuena . . .

    I scramble⁴ over the wire fence

    that would have kept me out.

    Once， I wanted out， wanted the rigid⁵ lanes

    to take me to a place without sun，

    without the smell of tomatoes burning

    on swing shift in the greasy⁶ summer air.

    Maybe it's here

    en los campos extra？os de esta ciudad

    where I'll find it， that part of me

    mown under

    like a corpse⁷

    or a loose seed.