The quiet sighof May evening. Outside, what cars remain turnslowly toward home. Alone indoors, we pray desperately to our gods. Surely the people are grass. Surely the people are grass.
Through slit-like blinds,bright sycamore leaves. Inside,blankets in their usual heap. Slowly, we circle the actual thing. I cannot locate it in the body– that ravenous hope. After, the treeso green it could burstinto blossom – but won’t.