grassbones

Green's mean, baby.
It's creeping at your door,
loud and celebrating.
It grabs your foot
when you get the mail.
Green is the battery
of overgrowth.
Snakes in mingling
look like arteries,
crossed at the neck
and pinched like a hose.
Green's dead, baby,
the color of moisture
and decomposing
architecture.
That swamp punk
Kermit knew
how to die, spring
back, make a few
million dollars.
He catches envy
the same way he
catches flies: with
the two green arms
of his forked
tongue.