Someone told me I should cut grass for a living.
Perhaps all lives would be better if confined
to one singular sweeping motion. Like conducting
an orchestra that’s silent, or shoveling snow
for the practice, in August, when all that batters
the hedges is a quaint shower of low-grade
longing. I had no idea that hedgehogs were dolls
and teacup patterns in countries such as
the one I found myself in. No one told me to go
elsewhere, but that didn’t mean belonging.
Please don’t start counting the ingredients that
comprise this particular soup. It’s supposed
to be an improvisation like everything else.
The cast-iron pot can be its own sort of villager.
If we begin asking the ghosts for permission
then nobody will be left to lay down the flowers.