My life as a lawn sprinkler

Ellen Stone

I believe in haircuts, the do-over,
of surfaces. 

Receptacle of arms, circulating
whirl a gigs, spreading over
vacant thoughts, quack grass,
wilted clumps of sweet clover. 

All this pressure, squeak of the on-off.
Tilt, adjust. The whole mechanism
hums again. 

Continual spit, glug & churr, churr.
Your own personal cicada. 

Sequestered until twilight dips.
Fireflies backlit. 

Steady as nightfall, filling the well,
distributing it.