Prairie Bishop

Weed, mosaic bunch 

of white, you foamed up

in the front of the house

like you had something 

to celebrate.

I almost said each tight bloom

like a starched collar,

but you are never so staid.

I practically hear you laughing

in your star formations.

What mirth you cast—tessellations 

of brief shade—over the dog

snoozing under your stems.

She gives one beat of her tail

as I approach.

How right you are together,

each doing just what is necessary.

Aza Pace’s poems appear or are forthcoming in The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, Tupelo Quarterly, Crazyhorse, New Ohio Review, Passages North, Mudlark, Bayou, and elsewhere. Read more.


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