Mowers.(New poems)(Brief Article)(Poem)

 
Mowers 
 
   Untended two months in my absence, 
   our backyard's pigweed and razorgrass 
   stood waist high against my weed-eater's 
   murderous blade. I bent, off balance, 
   and scythed tight crescents, mowing with 
   no plan--that night I'd dream it nicked 
   my shin and hummed into the air 
   bone-dust and blood. The dying plants lay 
   in loose, soft loaves, like sleepers 
   holding close against night fear or wind. 
   She who let them grow, preoccupied with us, 
   house, far dying parents--one remembers 
   childhood German and "meadowlark" 
   but not his daughter's name; the ethereal other 
  ...