Literature
cut grass
you forgot why
the clouds are beautiful,
why the folds of your hands
could pull stories from your
fog-filled mouth.
outside,
a lawnmower hums over
your words. all
you know is broken stems
and things
even the wind dropped.
you say to yourself
next year, we will
be drowning to our knees
in smell, in colors,
in sky-soaked grass
because of this sound.