as peat on the bog
a planted seed
the fat bullfrog
sleeping in the reeds

I’m the wind
I’ll slap your face
mess up your coiffure
and just as the air
take all the space

I won’t be overlooked
as wet cut hair
that falls to the floor
from the old barber’s chair

I’m the scissors
sharp and shiny
the pointed edge
the sun and the briny

I won’t be overlooked
as a hush
the dew on the grass
I’m the morning’s rush
the horns blowing
the beating pavement
a traffic jam
a star-made firmament