poets !
do you mow that lawn ?
or
lay on it
and
wallow weakly in its
tiny
forests
wondering
if
you
can face the metallic smell and cobwebs
of
the
dark
inhabited
shed
where the mower - LEVIATHAN - waits dusty and heavy ?
do you
just lay abandoned in its tall wands
and
fuzzball meadows
watching
its
citizens
pace and parade
and
try to forget
the
angry row the mower would yell ?
if it would start anyway . . .
and wheres the grass catcher ?
and the petrol can ?
and
who
are
you
anyway
to cull this lush microcosm
this
thick
gifted
apron - natures deep pile home ?
dont worry about it -
it
will
get
mowed
another day
when
your
head
is squarer
and
the
chaos
needs a fight
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