Kristin Gilchrist


The sky, pimped up with lights, is zoned
for serendipitous crossings with moon.
Please—zone it in a little closer.
Please stranger—I’m pretending not to like you.
Like you don’t know the difference
between an urban growth boundary
and trying to house a horse
in an RS-12 zone. Please, could we have
an abandoned parking lot
here? The secretary will need a place
to cry on her day off. Bring in the PZC,
make sure the hedge row is 8 ft high
and that Mixed-use Urban Renewal is out
by the pond fishing instead of killing flies.

Try expanding your maximum occupancy.
Now imagine there is a parade
facilitated by candy, raining and cold, a few
blocks away. Imagine your father
has twenty years, and you won’t have to bury him
in the next nineteen. Green belts have nothing

on going home. Longwood Gardens has nothing
on my neighbor’s purple C-cup, as it dangles
above the dirt, zoned in a historic overlay district,
custody of the Historic Preservation Review Board.
Your father has nothing on the spider
crossing your lap. You have nothing on eighty,
closer to birth and zoned in next to the breath
of river air crossing the easement to your heart.


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