When I run my fingers the wrong way
down stalks of grass, they catch on the whorl
of me. The world, it itches in me too,
and the doctors call it fear
for fear of calling it
anything else.
I fear there, in the grass. I fear
the horrible burn of the sun,
its image blistering,
lingering even after the blink.
I struggle to believe that warmth
is life. My neighbor dies in her home
and the cops find me instead, sitting
in grass so vast it could be an ocean,
rolling rocks like pills between my fingertips.
They ask if I’ve seen
anything suspicious. Yeah, officers.
I’m feeling pretty suspicious myself,
smothered in sun, the scent of weeds freshly mowed.
They go, boots heavy against the uneven
stone of my drive. I sit and stay.
I wonder how many dandelions needed to have
their heads blown off to dapple this lawn
with soft star-seeds bursting, some small collapse.
The woodpile rots despite its tarp,
lumped into the shape of a bucking bull,
its agitated back arched towards the clouds.
We were rained on, the wood and I,
and we buckled into pulp. If I had the nerve
I would take up a hobby, paint like the sky
paints the house. But I lean instead,
bury my fingers in cold dirt
and Lord, I lay.