stucco knobbly as charcoal briquets
the smell of hot dogs some idyll
of summer–sweating to
burst–
then that grass
dashed out on–for it was evening and we were neon
with it, free, it seemed late June, forever–
whose blades felt like 1000 leaps
softly landed–
that grass that laid down on, breathing
after a game, smelled
like a history of flight,
which is not made of nearly so much sky
as one might imagine–
**********************
drafty poem for April, Real Toads open link; pic mine, all rights reserved.
ManicDDaily 
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