The Grass.
“They say it’s always greener, but look at you.” “Bound to brittle hay patch, dressed in parchment, dancing with your crystal parasol… staring at the sun.” Meerweh shoo glances, collecting scenes in slides: Islands of man. Stand. Crystalline. Cool glaciers of Krypton. Embed. Magma. Rapids. Tears, hers; travel groove and bend, of knee, drip—between toes, down, down… down into the cool dark, of earth.
I’m here to cry—for you, Meerweh’s glass eyes burn.
