Switchgrass and sedge, tall fescue, river cane–
these gracious grasses lie underfoot
most of the time. We used to bale them
in Frosted Wheat circles–climbed them as kids,
the old gods of our hazy childhood.

                                                               For Whitman,
the grass was mystic. Symbol of a great rechurning–a song
that only he knew the words to. Picture him in DC
nursing the wounded with letters and licorice. 
Queer thoughts sprout like grass in the dark. 
Green man, he knew too well that one day
the dirt would too be his home.

Someone I knew didn’t think they’d ever die–
they’d wound up in the grass and were saved
a couple times–night spinning around them
like only wild young nights can blur young wild.
We’d stood together on patchy graveyard grass
in the rain. I guess Whitman is right–that it circles
round again. When my friend passed, I didn’t cry
to God exactly. I could not know their reasoning,
though I disagreed. 

Oh Walt Whitman, the grass can be–
it is so damn green–
each leaf its own little sort of hallelujah.