I keep no account of lamentation.
We smoke more grass than we ever promise to plant.
Our front yards are green and brown, triangles of glass——What is
the grass?——emeralds and garnets sewed like seeds in the dirt.
The shards of glass grow men bunched together——multitudes——men
larger than weeds and Whitmans, leaning against the sides of
houses——dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers——
upon dirt not lawn.
Corned beef comes on the first of every month——this the meat of
hunger——in white cans with bold black writing.
We——myself and mine——toss it in a pot and wonder how it will ever
feed us all——witness and wait——but never worry, never fret,
never give a damn, over mowing the grass.
What have we——the red aborigines——out of hopeful green stuff woven?