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.