Moratorium, Between Seasons

Fescue or ryegrass, Bemuda, Bahia? I cannot now find
the little green orbs that you said were the fruit

of grass—I copied the way you plucked and put them
between your teeth for the audible pop, a tiny note of sour

that roused the afternoon, made it less bland. Neighbors
trim and edge their lawns, area rugs in need of constant, precise

adjustment as spring mows into restive summer. Parched loaves
of earth, water receding from the river's bowl. The mind tries

to weave its own nets of unsubdued wilderness, places of cool
refuge for when the unimaginable manifests in an instant

from shadowy to celluloid clear. In the meantime,
I need to stop running trailers of the disastrous future

on loop. I need to sift the hours in the glass instead, once and
once again, and watch for yeast bubbling up to the surface.

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