What can I say of blades of grass 

that hasn’t been borne from superior minds? 

Grass is the teeth of the earth,

spines of cacti.

**

I tear myself for beauty

like a cactus spine is picked 

to tear the meat inside.

We slept on metal clouds 

that shook when boots grouped

along the narrow path,

blocking off the lights,

never from the top.

**

You wet your cloud and it rained 

on mine. A little swap not allowed 

in that tough crowd.

**

tears, our

last remaining memory of warmth,

shroud as well as urine

for prison-barred children.