A chapbook of poems from my younger years.
I, Lord Death, mighty
astride my riding lawnmower,
am modern too.
As is fashion, I wear safety goggles,
earplugs, and gardening gloves.
(not that grass screams)
Their names, grown tall—
goldenrod, thistle, daisy—
I know them all and mow them all
yet they always grow back.
I am neither monstrous nor random,
but I always need mulch.