by Anne Pierson Wiese

    St. Nicholas Park in Harlem is one of few spots

    on the island of Manhattan where you can stand

    on terraces of rock untouched since men

    with surveyor's tools stood on them

    to deliver the bad news， back in the last

    century but one： Gentlemen， here is a substance

    we cannot move.  So they built around，

    below and above， leaving this uneven

    pleat of ground， rocks surfaced between the trees

    like whales in strips of sun， stunned to find themselves

    landlocked among buildings， illuminated

    at night by lamp posts.   The old maples and oaks，

    roots plumbing the hill as humans could not，

    whisper of what's below： more rock-more rock-more rock