In the month of May…as the full moon rises over fields of hay, yet unharvested…the air is pink with crabapple. And the dirt, the dirt layers upon layers of rocks…rising as waves…what will be hounded, thrown into piles or dragged away and buried?
And yet they rise…in the month of May…as the full moon settles over the Avenues…B, C and D at the crossroads of Saint Paul Boulevard and despair…the Flower City’s sorrow.
And the air, the endless river air, thick with heated cement and cooking oil and leftovers from the House of Mercy…rising waves…who will be hounded, thrown into piles or dragged away with memories buried?
And yet they rise…building a garden or a weapon…in the month of May.
690 Saint Paul 