The dried fields of grass were blank like
me.
In bleary times,
they and I were beige and
In brilliant times,
they and I were beige.
We coincided in this miserable
mutual inanity where we just
sat there and
were nothing and
had no purpose.
I would lay there on bored afternoons
and play pretend
that I was doing something productive.
The grass would scratch me.
I would pick it from the ground.
We irritated each other purposefully,
like friends sometimes do,
but we were there for eachother,
like friends always are.





The Dead Grass
was dearer to me than a friend
could be.
I was laying in the grass
and a few monarchs
fluttered phantasmically around my fingers
like a daydream.
It was one of those things
that I may have dreamed
lackadaisically
when I forgot to open my eyes
after blinking from the harsh sun.
I layed there even in the snowfall.
The cold didn’t bother me much
if I dressed well enough.
I mean, it wasn’t nice
but it wasn’t so bitter.