I never liked barefooting
over you, prickly anti-
cushion, porcupine-ish
clutch of awls. Straight
from the sprout,
you’re tough. The green
that composes a lawn—
fresh, lush—you lack,
yet you edge in,
O clumps, O tussocks.

We lamented your encroachment
on the softball field. We fought
you out of the backyard, flustered
at how you bind, you keep, you hunker
unfazed by downpour or by drought.

You range like the nebulas—
refusing border, you’re all reach. No
dump or gulch or tended garden
do you scorn, continuing
over, into, through—
you, a scruffy halo
on overdoing, on outdoing.