I
like everybody else
carry
an envelope in
my
chest and through
the
plastic screen of
the
envelope you can
see
grass clippings from
my
childhood lawn.
My
father and I hung
carpet
from the walls of
the
room in my first
apartment,
there's no
reverberation
and I keep
a
clump of your hair and
other
fuzz on the carpet.
It
sticks, born of static
or
a velcro property
waiting
to be rolled
one
day with the grass
clippings
and smoked on
a
beach with people I
feel
okay about
things.