The quiet sigh
of May evening. Outside,
what cars remain turn
slowly toward home. Alone
indoors, we pray desperately
to our gods. Surely
the people are grass.
Surely the people are grass.
The quiet sigh
of May evening. Outside,
what cars remain turn
slowly toward home. Alone
indoors, we pray desperately
to our gods. Surely
the people are grass.
Surely the people are grass.
