They are back, the miniature

explosion of florets, cut away

just days before by the mower.
Their viscous yellow is pure

revenge against me, the late spring

and the grass. Green intransigence.
Embers in the umbrella's shade,

mildly bereaved of the sun or a god,

who rides upon a white horse
through azure clouds. They compose

an extinct creed in florid horrors;

anthrax and manna, floating on the air.
The neighbour has flagstones

of beaten scarabs and rose

bushes of shorn porphyry.
Still, automatic sprinklers

rise up timbrels over the fence,

like the sea passing from sight.
I cannot sit there any longer.

The world is ending. Look for stars,

invisible, trending pass noon.

Nothing to do but wait and hope.