I prefer synthetic grass
no roots no worm
of tendril fade
of blade no water
needed seep elsewhere
no clover call it weed
already and be done
pesticide rake mower
teenage boy sweat
for five dollars
no suburban hum
back to street cluster
vegetable smells not rot
but linger summer stay
of firefly evening
no little death
of winter resurrection
sticks and bones
take the sun when
you leave please
yesterday a bee flew
low and slow into
my kitchen looking
for a smear of honey lost
Plume: