Roaming in Rote (for Sarah) Days I waited for the grass to grow wild, ancient, cuttable, to get on the Mini Cadet tractor, inhale peachy splotches that refreshed your neck's breathing in my sinuses, and play over and again the mixes you had given me -- where I could cry without my sister chuckling and running off to tell Mom and Dad I was in love. Didn't they know? The grass felt fine with it, but sticks I had to pick up and not wreck the blades -- like you leaving me, my parents trying to console me. Make it better? How better than the bleeding grass, your throat? -- Peter Douglas

spank thru