We belittle the grass when we think it grows
everywhere. It doesn’t. It grows here and here and here.
And we belittle it too when we think
we are nowhere. In some field near some meadow illegible,
indistinct. We are where this grass
is. Even one blade is a place. Even raked
into windrows. Even after a sun so strong
we have to squint to see anything it is furious with
rifles through the grass, confiscates every atom of hydrogen
and oxygen, every subscript two, bidding them
to rise like the hair on my forearms,
in unison but also I can feel every strand. Every degree is a place,
every part per million of carbon in the air
is reached, as all places are
comprised of decisions. Fallen trees
called nurse logs are covered with moss, niches of humus,
small plants that make a place of its body.
