At the edge, yellow hamemelis. Witch hazel
hides coffee cups, teenage smokers, broken
plastic boxes, a muddy baseball.
what I know of history
what I know of parenting, of death
what I know of paint by numbers and serial numbers
what I know of you
what I know of bridges, trees, birds
what I know of budgets, the taxonomy
of any gridded street
Dogs barking, dogs shitting, dogs on leashes
and off, puppies learning to heel, people
yelling at puppies, parents in zinc bleachers.
Not to write a self-portrait at the park
Not to take a selfie at the park
Not to Google your own name at the park
Not to find yourself at the park
Not to see Mary Dozark’s name on a plaque at the park
Not to find details about Mary Dozark like phone number, address, and email using the people search directory
All the daisies locked up in the cold and my fists
in my pockets. Torn net hanging over red
clay. How I like to feel helpful.
Bandsaws on weekends, trampoline springs. Song
of the sad ice cream man and mower engines.
Evening bonfires, a hint of burnt rubber.
Poem About Grass
Spring: a kitchen sponge.
Winter: a white plate.
Autumn: lit matchsticks.
Summer: stale bread crusts.
A child pushing a small pink stroller. A father
laughing in Russian, his boy running through
fence-blown leaves. Nothing to keep this in.
piece of sunglass
We all use it, a square locked in, exposed
on all sides. I guess they spray the weeds sometimes:
an orange at the edges where growth stops.
Green helmet, huge on a little girl’s head. Women
circle the grass in neons, iPods. How come I never
cut across the field?