a
poem by
Andrew Grossman
> bio
The Grass in the Floodplain Crackles Underfoot
keeping its heads down, the rain
pounding the cement of mind, the rain
making a mist of hardness
passing over the spring grass
buying and lighting with floodlights,
calm and serene by the absence
of the loud distraction of frogs,
the grass spreads to the mountains
bringing the echo to the valley
where the river slithers beneath rocks,
the helicopters carry their boxes
within the grasp of the yew trees
blueprints ruffle in the soft breeze,
distance is pointed out, squinting,
white sheets unroll on the spring grass,
cables take the job of crackling
