Mow the lawn
goes the tune
of much of the afternoon.
And when not mowing,
I’m grading,
eyes roving
toward evening
whereupon,
once arrived,
I watch a show of discovery:
witches
outing and moving out
half-woke
via cauda pavonis—
prima materia transmuted,
person transformed—
grass a kind of catalyst.
Trance-Scripts 