Diniro's Garden
By Laura McCullough

Tribeca,
two story,
trees in pots
and an irrigation system claiming rain
and draining into twelve hundred and forty two plants,
hostas alone: fifty-two kinds, and the birches twenty-feet tall.

In the night, the lights illume the golden glass-tiled Jacuzzi
and the bar where DiNiro entertains friends and enemies.

Triangle bordering the canal;
from a GPS system,
an easy mark,
and from a satellite,
the manifested shape glows with what matters:

the small acting on a daily basis
as if good things can come true:
manifested one pot at a time,

and then, when birch trees sway over their heads,
they will look up blinking in the patterns
tossed about as the light filters through them --
dark and light, dark and light --
but inside that,
a million shades of greens and grays
all waiting to be named.

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