A mother and child activate the lawn, the child in her sundress and the woman in white, barefoot. Their Post Toasties are post-modern. I sit closer to one of the speakers that rests on the statistical curve of the backyard, the long curlicue signature with the dot after it. Every now and then I imagine we could as easily have gone for a swim in the rain. As long as we give someone a window into our personal lives, like how I spend the winter in the desert and the summer by the coast, somebody has to, then it's somehow OK to be casual about the narrative. Therefore casually in the grass the violets paint the mother and child with all of nature between them, a dot of yellow shielding the sun. This couldn't take place on metromedia television, because the message is the corsage the woman has on. All form avoids recreation. Memory has to have a good time too, at any expense, the jerk who asks Who's the pimp here anyway? and is a syntactic greeting. Let's leave them alone, innocent, the baby doesn't have to be a line nor the woman a sentence. The yard explodes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WORDS IN A CERTAIN APPROPRIATE MODE by HAYDEN CARRUTH WAR IS KIND: 21 by STEPHEN CRANE A GARDEN SONG by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE ERL-KING by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE THE LOVE-SICK FROG by MOTHER GOOSE FOAM STRAY by JOSEPH AUSLANDER THE PRINCESS by BJORNSTJERNE MARTINIUS BJORNSON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 44 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |