In the Bronx
the sky is much wider
and one can always see the stars
or watch the sun go down
bedaubed in copper and saffron.
In the Bronx
a sleepy lump of isle
breathes the brine of the bay
into your lungs, and lulls
your being with the sights
and the sounds
of a New England town.
In the Bronx,
against all odds,
a primeval forest stands
eternal
and a resurrected river
cleanses
its muddy banks
for the March of Kayaks
and Canoes
and yellow water-ribbons.
-by Carmen D. Lucca

