A Pasture Cropped Down by Lawnmowers

Even up here
Perched above the whirling
Blades of an economy
All fury and vanity
Blowing a gale to cool
That guardsman’s sword aflame
Which will not yet be cooled
Against dread look and see
Swallows fly low over
Machine-cut pasture in
The heart of the city
Catching bugs and trailing
Their slender vee of tail
Banking hard away they
Catch the reclining sun
On underplumage light
As golden hay

Before the First Haircut

Stay the shears one more day.
There’s something to be said
for the hair of a small
child grown wild and uncouth
from birth to this sunny
afternoon. It will be
a while yet before self
awareness and pride can
coalesce into style.
Until then my boy runs
joyfully facing out
into the world, launching
peals of belly laughter.


Might Titans

Hand over the keys to the machine
To men vain, pious, and lusting
See what they won’t demonize
Love and grave and you and I
Pave in sorrow their easy ride
Smooth up to the door knocker of hell
Thought a garden, and just as well.

Go on, then, courting
Up to that reddening brink.
Run after your smiling groom.

Not but injustice–grace–
Could turn aside what just reward
Waits in the bed they’ve made.
Might titans hear a quiet word?

I guess, but
I confess
I often root against it