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 teethinto the branded of maggots.It’s a gross pasture of slabs andbreast-fed bed bugs milking from thecraven nipples of those who sleepwith metal eyes and slaved toes.I’d rather reign inside, undermahogany 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.