Small Things

The dew from the grass seeps through the fabric of my pants
the fog of the night, the distant barking dog,
a feeling of crime at the leaping of fence
present, but distant
staring into one million eyes
mighty, but quivering, but calm.

Without waver, without question
I am a small and alien being
lying in the cool, damp grass
in a field so close to my home,
but so far, far from it.

Like a stoned adolescent who sees God in the smoke
and who loudly proclaims, “All is one, one is all.”
I too understand a few small things
–my place in this world, fear, gentle beings,
and this world does not really age.


–“Lying down in the wet grass never goes out of style.”


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