Little grass, grass so poor Poem by Gian Mario Villalta

Little grass, grass so poor,
of a field dazed under the overpasses,
cold grass, dirty grass of a field
forgotten for years
Why do you insist on growing
your little dialect of verse smothered
by aluminum foil and monoxide?
What are you saying - real - you?
And the kiwis, then, the cans of corn
Do they look virtual to you?
You're not the one that saves you.
You're not the one that knows you.
You are only stranded
in the infinity of your nudity.