Even grass prays for meaning, each
blade marrying dirt and light.
The moon inches up, confessing
to both envy and lust.
We spoke for an hour
about giving ourselves assignments
without getting permission.
July. Persimmons are in season.
Red wine and blue smoke.
Steve Cannon has left the building.
The sky is lost in a purple robe.
The bells of St. Mark’s give me a chill.
Grass rejoices when we come home.
And leaves applaud the wind.