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,
wonders,
What color are these weeds?
