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N A N C Y S I M P S O N Grass We ought to be thankful it grows wild on roadbanks, sometimes blond and curled. It holds earth together and still we hear Earth is falling. Sink holes in the south swallow cars. We do not doubt, but can we help wonder what happens when the bottom drops? Maybe clumps fall with the Jeep and the Porsche, forming the shoreline of a lake, in some posh suburb. Grass has a right to be cherished, Crowning Glory, clipped to perfection. No matter where we sleep we live with threat hanging over our lawns. Who says we need more weapons? We want to know what will happen to grass, grass everywhere, amber savannahs, sacred as the hair on our heads. The 1980s ❚ 141 ...

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