At dusk, after a softening rain,
More than bitter dock bites the dust.
Yellow dock, curly dock and sorrel
Is cut by an expert hoe in an act
Of exacto against the weedy world.
The expert hoe, as if it is 
On its own…a volition
Of wood and steel so trained
To rule this plot of green and so
Able to distinguish invader
From the real, drags its blade
Across the miniscule of air
Twixt dirt and stem

I think you’re asleep
Behind the wheel of your arm’s
Machine that propels itself
Like a barbarous guillotine
But your sudden twitch of eye
Catches me in a state of guilt
For my venial sin of sloth
In our okra bed has grown
To mortal level.  You slow
Your hoe to watch me flail
Through my Garden of Morass:
An overwhelming wave
Of Johnson Grass