tell the flowers—they think
the sun loves them.
The grass is under the same
simple-minded impression
about the rain, the fog, the dew.
And when the wind blows,
it feels so good
they lose control of themselves
and swobtoggle wildly
around, bumping accidentally into their
slender neighbors.
Forgetful little lotus-eaters,
solar-powered
hydroholics, drawing nourishment up
through stems into their
thin green skin,
high on the expensive
chemistry of mitochondrial explosion,
believing that the dirt
loves them, the night, the stars—
reaching down a little deeper
with their pale albino roots,
all Dizzy
Gillespie with the utter
sufficiency of everything.
They don't imagine lawn
mowers, the four stomachs
of the cow, or human beings with boots
who stop to marvel
at their exsquisite
flexibility and color.
They persist in their soft-headed
hallucination of happiness.
But please don't mention it.
Not yet. Tell me
what would you possibly gain
from being right?
