It Can't Be True
It Can’t Be True
by Michael Brownstein
That we belong to one of the last generations
To see an uncontaminated sky
And walk through enough forest
Stretching for hundreds of square miles
Uncharted and completely surrounded by itself
Holding us because being there
Is a real surprise, vast and everyday
And not just the unspoiled tip
Of an island fenced off by the gov’t.
For one brief, clumsy weekend
Fucking away from the glare of the city’s
0 thoughts on “It Can't Be True”
A poem very close to my heart. It could be true. But we could keep it from being. I love the forest described as “completely surrounded by itself…vast and everyday.” Also “the glare of the city’s shiny hallucination” putting civilization in the perspective of nature. “One brief, clumsy weekend” depicts the ingenuous joy of an urbanite hiking through wilderness. A fine, call-to-attention statement.