Riding Mower, Backyard, Steam Clouds from Perry Nuclear Power Plant, Ohio

There’s a science to it, this mowing—

mass of mower, momentum of turn, simple force—

the physics of cut, and I am cutting it all down,

my field of nothing much, shaping the perfect order of grid across mounds and dips.

I like the bouncing seat, the unresisting wheel, the snug indentation

to hold a can of beer—the effortless work;

I cannot see the blade. Below, a groundhog hole

bursts into dust, clattering rock and dirt.

My telephone book assures me that everything is made of atoms.

If told to take shelter, I am to strip down,

wash with mild soap, lukewarm water.

If told to evacuate, I am to grab a credit card

and an extra pair of shoes. Some atoms give off radiation.

If the mower stutters, I walk across the yard and get a can of gas.

If the beer is empty, I walk across the yard and get a can of beer—

this prophetic calculation of sequence.

Small puffs of clouds on the horizon

rise through a sunny day. I plant

imaginary trees, planning obstruction—

each leaf absorbing. The mower chews through

a plastic bag. In the case of a simple unusual event,

I am to do nothing.

The mower reaches the edge—

I have nothing to do.

from Guide to Native Beasts (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2004)