Bluegrass, careful, unequivocal

Spiky here, shaved there,

Earthfur bristling,

Cold in summer’s windy fever.

There is a gradual slope of green

That picks up speed and picks up steam

And careens into a cliff

Whose bottom I dare not see.

By that precipice,

The patchy weeds

Tell me there is no depth to this soil,

Nothing firm in the footing.

I should retreat to the shadow of trees,

Lean against them,

Let my page wonder what goes on below.