In the grass again its blades are familiar to the foot, soft on the underside and gently yielding. They provoke thought in words carelessly thought, but leading to essential meaning.
A man in the bench is drowned in words, words that issued from his lips flowing from a newspaper. Newspaper drowned him in words,his pants reeling under the tyranny of its middle spread. Papers spoke through his lips. Of people dead, of roads not being repaired, of men in topis changing flags.Of bad people who deserved to be jailed.
The bare armed man doing nostril noises is missing. His 70’s song about the girl in the car not knowing where the rouge on her cheeks has come from is not gently floating in the wind today .
Not the girl but the song-I can be confusing to myself in my syntax,can’t I? .
That is what happens if the grass is not adequately be-dewed.The dew is now in the word making segment of the left hemisphere.
The other man doing a midriff revolution near the tree is quietly sitting on the bench. He is not even throwing his arms about in the wind.
The cricket near the tree root seems missing. I just pat the tree affectionately and come away.