A poetess thought herself a mint
For a head at poetry book cover,
Mint breathing in wayside grass.
Mint does no poems, only creep,
And smell nice for us off poems,
And in the greenest of bored teas.
We do feel creepy at most times
On dank balconies watching men
Going about their milk and eggs
Every other morning purposively.
Like mint they bend on the grass.
Their shadows imply an existence.