Flora

Verdant veracity of the

vertebrate lawn rumbling

in an amalgamation of tongues

about the dangers of sunglasses.

In the house I drink my sunscreen.

The fly watches from

his trap embittered.

I’ll move through death

like a wind in my veil.

He’ll stay still and desiccate.

The lawn has done the

back-breaking work of drawing

meaning from dirt.

I can’t see the arms through

all the wisps of greenery,

but something is being

grasped preciously,

the edge of the sidewalk,

and the personhood of the

greenery is undoubtable.