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--- T O M   D E V A N E Y

The tree nobody I know can name grows from cement atop the top of all subway platforms. It won't stop growing from crumbled concrete. The one nobody I know can name has many names, but it's not the "tree of God"; I've found it in poems by many friends though none of my friends are poets. My closest friends are a ghost and a cloud. Every tree I'm talking about is a painting written by a poet, just as all poems are trees written by painters.

For do we call the recently noticed tall one out on the fire escape? Before I looked out of the window it was in nine poems, half a film treatment and at least four of my last seven meals. Sacrificing the possible beauty of its name, What can they say about that? The tree nobody I know can name doesn't need encouragement, but I encourage (if by nothing else) by not discouraging it. The one year head ache you didn't know you had, till you didn't have it.

The concrete continues to grow.

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