Sunday, August 12, 2012


by Ed Pavlic


convicts mow
your leaves of grass

they wear masks
that look like the eyes of a fly

and everywhere
they move

they vomit
along the ground

the smell
they would not smell.

Today I drove
past a field

manured and hayed

and rolled my window up.

I have let you down.

Tell me—
do you know?—
Is this what prison is,
no longer
and not wishing
to smell
not just grass
but even ourselves?

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