WILLIAM BLAKE DOES MY YARDWORK
as I sit inside and read. Occasionally,
I look out at him as though he were my child.
My looking is part supervision and part discernment.
He starts the lawnmower with a single pull,
and it runs cleaner than I can imagine.
He trims a line of grass,
and then turns towards deceit and cunning,
making each an inch high, each smelling
like fresh-cut versions of themselves.
He turns the chickens into coherent, miniature elephants.
The compost turns itself, making itself shape-shift.
He doesn’t weed the garden—quite the opposite,
as the weeds begin to tangle and rise, and emit
a snake-like light onto the fence.
He resets the patio’s pavers, and though
they are level, they begin to pass underfoot
like clouds. He has made my life
particolored and trembling. Inside the earth,
there is a small voice, like that of a child.
Biographical Statement
Colin Criss has an MFA in poetry from Washington University in St. Louis. His eighth book of poetry, The Eighth Book of Poetry, is due out soon from a trade press that makes exclusive, incorrect maps of geologic time. He has been awarded a grant from the NEA: the Neocolonial Effects Association, which consisted of a free lunch box with no lunch inside. His dog writes poems too, but chooses not to send them out for publication.