Blades clogged with wet grass
the sun has risen
a rooster headed Bostonian
squats in Terrier fashion
to the beat of well-oiled machine
the sun has not yet begun
to char its' flesh
what works these mama fields
before running them cool streets
the sun is on the one
whose eye this thick, wet grass
as a lover
lying in wait
to feel his whirring blade
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