If I lay as grass
Still, sodden
I’d turn blue from the downpour
A tri-daily flooding
So different from my parched crackled home
Where brown and yellow bleed into the earth
Here roots would grow
Tangled in organs
And burst through skin
Trimmed neatly by gardeners
Who fawn over straight edges

AN – This poem is about my campus in Cholula which gets drenched daily by the gardeners.

Bronte

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