Grass is a lucky plant on an asphalt planet,
but I like things growing in deserts.
They please me, deserted of us.
Some think their porches deserve
a cactus. It pleases them.

Walking on gravel to grass, lucky growth,
over who knows whose graves, as dark as
stygian glass windows—only a few of those.
Most are filled with tonic television’s
tincture, too late for new Bonanza reruns,
too early for tomorrow’s news.

The only shade in blush burned black
brings sound: a human straining
a violin’s strings.

If it wasn’t for the lack of sun stain,
we would see cast shadows of birds,
vultures with wingspans of airplanes.

As our pup sniffs at the lucky grassy spot,
noses take to the air as we auscultate the violin’s call,
we do not see the puppy fertilize the world.

We walk off, following our ears, forgetting
to pick up the mushy mayhem on the rare grass median,
complete with little red flowers bleeding from earth,
worming out dumped soil, surrounded by concrete.

There’s always hope everyone says not a thing,
and remains as silent as cacti as classical chaos
plays publically, then ends in secret silence.
The best forgiveness.

It pleases us.