Last night I dreamed I mowed the lawn.
There were weeds and crab grass
But I took them all in stride, and in the end
Ours looked better than anyone else’s
On the block. Tonight I’m going to clip the hedge.

If imagination is the truant of onus,
The vital porism that follows is
That bedtime sings the oldest song.

Fighting the secret of appearance keeps us
Alive, addicts us to silence.
It’s been three weeks since I touched
The mower and gazed across the map of duty.

The grass is slowing down again,
Dying in islands,
The honeysuckle mauling the fence.
It’s clear something needs doing,
But not exactly what.