Roaming in Rote (for Sarah)

Days I waited for the grass to grow
wild, ancient, cuttable, to get
on the Mini Cadet tractor, inhale
peachy splotches that refreshed your neck's
breathing in my sinuses, and play
over and again the mixes you had given
me -- where I could cry without my sister
chuckling and running off to tell
Mom and Dad I was in love. Didn't they
know? The grass felt fine with it, but sticks I
had to pick up and not wreck the blades --
like you leaving me, my parents trying
to console me. Make it better? How
better than the bleeding grass, your throat?

-- Peter Douglas

spank thru