Las casitas near the gray cannery，

    nestled amid wild abrazos of climbing roses

    and man-high red geraniums

    are gone now.  The freeway conceals it

    all beneath a raised scar.

    But under the fake windsounds of the open lanes，

    in the abandoned lots below， new grasses sprout，

    wild mustard remembers， old gardens

    come back stronger than they were，

    trees have been left standing in their yards.

    Albaricoqueros， cerezos， nogales . . .

    Viejitas come here with paper bags to gather greens.

    Espinaca， verdolagas， yerbabuena . . .

    I scramble over the wire fence

    that would have kept me out.

    Once， I wanted out， wanted the rigid lanes

    to take me to a place without sun，

    without the smell of tomatoes burning

    on swing shift in the greasy summer air.

    Maybe it's here

    en los campos extra？os de esta ciudad

    where I'll find it， that part of me

    mown under

    like a corpse

    or a loose seed.