Blood Grass

Short bursts of breeze in the long leaves,

the slightest of eddies as though

their pulse were pumping actual red cells

through the tall margins of the field—

Likelier that their real nature as flammable,

short-lived bursts of vigorous and

violent life, destined to flame

up, out, leap to cosmic oblivion, and die—

Are these our guides, or are

they mirrors of the flimsy, volatile existence

that we share? Only there, in

the margins of the field, do the flames

and shadows of our being have

a moment’s sway, for better or for worse,

of honesty out in the sun. Only there,

where the grass grows tall and yet

has not the strength or

depth of root to thrive, do we

see how little of the energy

with which we’d credited ourselves

really shines for longer than

a short, weedy season, bending

this way, bending that, and sparking

into sudden flares of incandescent


before returning to earth,

extinguished without

having distinguished ourselves, yet still

flying a bold red flag as if

we were something more.Digital illo: Japanese Blood Grass

5 thoughts on “Imperfections

    • I’m glad you enjoyed it all. On re-reading just now, I hate to admit I almost hear drumming alongside, like the Beatnik club poetry of yore. 😉 But I still kinda like it. Guess that tells you something about me, eh! 😀

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