Blue

It was a carousel, singular and safe.
Catching balls and blind,
It’s middle-ground:
This grass is a highway billboard,
prying its corporate teeth
into the branded of maggots.
It’s a gross pasture of slabs and
breast-fed bed bugs milking from the
craven nipples of those who sleep
with metal eyes and slaved toes.
I’d rather reign inside, under
mahogany crowns, and crying fires,
like a half-formed memory,
because only I understand I.
This grass can’t understand the known.
This grass I trudge on is blue,
Lightnin’ and Waters.