In Poems & Fiction

In the front yard,

sunburned, shirtless,

Picasso mows the blue grass.

The petulant scythe shaves close

the lawn’s picture plane.

The cloudless sky,

is the color of a window.

In the mind’s eye,

three figures writhe

in the curl of feral velocity.

He pauses,

& with an ice-white cloth

daubs his damp brow,

stoops low toward the earth’s fresh-cut scent,


                   What color are these weeds?

Start typing and press Enter to search