Where The Wild Grass Grows Poem by Eszty Arod

They're building 'em up
skeletons of brand new palaces,
glass is shining everywhere
so neat are the lines
converging and rising from the sea
that feeds my eyes with watery
veins. Though
the place I like most,
is where the wild grass grows,
where angry bikers hit mud hills
and thick-skinned fishermen cradle
pet-boats between one pint
and the other.