They are back, the miniature
explosion of florets, cut away
just days before by the mower.
Their viscous yellow is pure
revenge against me, the late spring
and the grass. Green intransigence.
Embers in the umbrella’s shade,
mildly bereaved of the sun or a god,
who rides upon a white horse
through azure clouds. They compose
an extinct creed in florid horrors;
anthrax and manna, floating on the air.
The neighbour has flagstones
of beaten scarabs and rose
bushes of shorn porphyry.
Still, automatic sprinklers
rise up timbrels over the fence,
like the sea passing from sight.
I cannot sit there any longer.
The world is ending. Look for stars,
invisible, trending pass noon.
Nothing to do but wait and hope.