by Ed Pavlic
Walt,
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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