Monday, August 13, 2012

The Happiest





(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

I don't know if this will make you
the happiest little girl 
in the whole wide world,
but I hope so.

(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

The mower is black, mostly, 
with several bright orange
plastic parts.

No engine.

To cut is to hear 
the whir 
of the reel,
and to smell fresh cut grass
in quivering air,
insects rising.

(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

The crickets' constant
buzz, 
harbinger of autumn,
bitter gathering.

Attic dust as thick and soft 
as a slice of Wonder Bread.

A fly's desiccated carcass lies,
belly up,
on a window sill.

She waves good morning
to the old couple on whose
doorstep
she pissed a puddle last
week. Ignorant, they raise 
palms and smile like 
idiots.

Midnight cabin,
a woman shrieks,
the window illuminated,
blue.

Untie the string, lift the lid.

A whisper of rainfall...

Pedal up the steep hill,
panting,
ready to return. Walking
into kitchen,
radio on,
psycho daisies
running riot.

(I love the scent 
of fresh cut grass.)

We got there, though I don't know how.