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Literature Text
The timothy at last has gasped awake,
nodding its sombreros to dandelions
and contemplative, horse-faced paspalum.
The lawn's momentum
has gotten away from us-- we ourselves
are growing
prostrate, our eyes glissoming
toward a verdant god,
little seed-ships docked
between its billion fingers-- a diaspora
waiting to die, and then live,
and then die. If we still our own breath,
we might sense
the aspiring whole-- sweet, green cilia,
damp with exhalation,
licking the backs of our thighs
as gravity weights us down, like stones,
like a giant's palms pressing.
nodding its sombreros to dandelions
and contemplative, horse-faced paspalum.
The lawn's momentum
has gotten away from us-- we ourselves
are growing
prostrate, our eyes glissoming
toward a verdant god,
little seed-ships docked
between its billion fingers-- a diaspora
waiting to die, and then live,
and then die. If we still our own breath,
we might sense
the aspiring whole-- sweet, green cilia,
damp with exhalation,
licking the backs of our thighs
as gravity weights us down, like stones,
like a giant's palms pressing.
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© 2010 - 2024 salshep
Comments4
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lawn/momentum
sky/flipflopped
great lines
sky/flipflopped
great lines