by Jason Grant
Blue grass, brighter than what I had ever
in my humble, simple, quick life laid eyes
on was growing near the garden—out there,
where the Hat Man waited for me to try
seeing for myself if He was really
a thing, like the puzzle pieces I had
laid out on the kitchen table’s empty
foodless, wooden surface. But, as sad
and odd as it may seem I was nearly shaking—
for no reason other than the awful
sinking feeling that was coyly making
me ask why I feared His quiet, slow pulls.
Hearing crows caw outside was like the end
because now that torn hat is on my head.