To fumble, the stingy tongue of a thirsty cat.
Damp, primordial, always flowering,
I grifted and grazed an uncut lawn.
In a sour summertime.
The order given, drawer open,
The words sank.
To irrigate, the reeds and weeds, I
Thrusted into a cul-de-sac,
Above me, the skyline of spongy grass
approached,
Signal for unsolicited rain.
Drips, nets, roots,
Itchy bellies and untouched necks.
Moss.
It was about to fall.