I’m sorry to say, Mr. Whitman dear, I’ve cut your blades of grass:
Not lingered with them in a camp by starlight and the sin of wine;
Not cherished with a wide caress across the brow and unkept crown;
Not carefully considered or deftly loved,
But cut—swift the bane away, and dead.
You’ll ask me why the temper I suppose, why the strident end—
But I’ve no course of reason to suggest it’s sane,
No cartograph to point the way to understanding smiles,
No compass for the labyrinthine folly that is mine
What end in warm embrace and satisfying laughs.
I’m just that mad, my Whitman dear
To sever all your fields above the neck.
And come next year—the lush grass rising like the dead,
I’ll cut them down again.