to avoid the cut. Clovers bubble
up through furious rotating blades
in uneven tumbles, yet crabgrass
always stands firm. This demands
the work of hands, poison perhaps.
Therein lies contradiction, trouble
with morals. Prickly lettuce invades
until I pull the root; dandelions pass
by from breeze. The crabgrass never
gives in. My hands stained with green.
5/28/10
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