The Lawn Mower

When we finally flip it over   

the fireflies are out. The neighbor boy   

has had his stitches in so I can finally admit   

I think it is all fantastic: the suck   

of the spark plug undone, the stuck blade   

bent into the guard, and the sound   

of the hammer’s head reshaping the metal.   

In this our suburban Eden we’ve only   

a teenage Adam too dreamy to manage   

his motorized scythe and silly Eve leaving   

her coffee cups and plastic plant pots   

behind in the grass. Though it’s a long way   

from a fall, this spring’s first disaster,   

I did like the thin thread of red   

on his upper lip, and I like my mower   

turned over among the glowworms,   

a monstrous dandelion as unnatural as we   

are, out in a garden, with our untidy   

golds and our dangerous sharps.