the great stillness

Grass is growing out at
the edge of the sky.
“I see it out there
growin’, dawg,” said a caller
to WKSS. He was asked
to dedicate a love song.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” he said.

It’s blades are visible.
“They gotta be hundreds of feet
high,” said Mr. Floyd at the
gas station. “Jurassic
Grass,” read the Daily News.
The grass swayed
without wind.

It grows at a remarkable
rate. “We’ve disrespected
our Mother Earth,” read a
marcher’s sign. A bartender
fashioned coasters out of
old flannel shirts.

The grass is growing,
its growing. F-16s
were sent out there, buzzing.
A transmission crackled back:
“We find living atop the
blades downright pleasant.
Over.” Earth teeters
at a ceasing,
a stillness. Mr. Floyd
quit smoking. There’s
the hum of the last
refrigerator. Our eyes meet.