No luck of clovers here

If a man’s to charge me now

I don’t think that I could move

Blinded by the sun

The insects stand aloof

Counting blades of grass

No luck of clovers here

Each day’s a hangman’s pity

Each night’s a cross to bear

ashes and asphalt

The grass was thick and warm

unlike the asphalt

which was fire to her to feet

so she lay in the grass

sharp but pliable blades

caressing her skin exposed

while the sun began

to shower her thoughts poured

like rain simmering steam rose

from the ashes and asphalt.