The Domiciles Project



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The old guy works with old tools,
cuts the grass with scizzors,
one blade at a time, he hunches over
intent on slicing up the green.
It bleeds, bleeds into stabs of darker green,
blood green
blood grass.
He doesn’t see the fuzzy crepe myrtle
shadowing him, shadowing his task,
bending down to reach him,
so intent is he on the trim,
the cut, the slice.
He won’t finish in time.
It will take him years,
and, as he cuts, one section at a time,
the grass will grow around him,
the grass will grow without him.
Life will go on around him.
Life will go on without him.
Cut, trim, slice.

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