Dandelions

Gone to seed gone to 
gosling, old lady fuzz, 
gone from the bright 
yellow, 
gone things—ugly stalk 
and spores I kick 

with my workboot 
to watch the seeds 
explode—the violence 

with which I kick the dandelions 
the tenacious, imperturbable 
bane of lawn love. 

I love no lawn. I love 
These wasted, little hags 
I kick. 

They are mine. They are mine: 
They are the old bitches 
at 6 o’clock mass 

who always and never die. 
Someone’s granmah I hoist 
On the steel toe of my boot. 

I kick her to the moon. 
She cries: touch me. 
The things of this world 

cry touch me. The things 
of this world cry 
dandelion.