Thursday, May 30, 2013


Shuffling past mumbling
lawnmowers—the smell

of freshcut grass drifting 
thick on humid wind 

floods my nose and 
smears me out in 

space and time to
every lazy lawn I've sat on—

brushing spiny 
blades, I'm itchy,

blushing water-
melon red for picnics 
parties concerts backyard 
football fireworks—all

while walking straight 
ahead but plainly lost 
in the best of all possible 
worlds—fertilized as such 
by the actual mulch 
of nothing much.