The Town I Crave

Called Eugene. This is where I am. I find Eugene under the rubble of air and green April wind. How I felt in the green glow that is Hendricks Park much too silent much too still. We saw the wind go up the small canyon. Where we stood there was none. How can it be Eugene continuing past its due date in the gigantic valley. This question is not new. It is so old this story. I could see what the poet was saying about things turning into other things. This has happened only a dozen or so times to me but I can relate standing there empty with nothing helping. The whirling will take leaves and things and tossing them around exactly what he wanted although he wasn't supposed to ask.