Noah Warren

Spring 2019

In the complex center, the field
where in the early afternoon
I would sit and rest. A broad
polished path of red-gray granite
cut it exactly on four sides, held it;
no path led out or in;
here I would sit, the pristine
salad beside me, sensing
a forgetting taking place
lightly in the back of my brain.
The grass that filled this space
was of at least four different species,
not counting clover or the tight mosses
that volunteered, and so at any time
I might observe hues that ranged from whitened lime
to olive, to lustrous blue-green, to a deep forest
green so dark, when soaked or shadowed,
I took it for black. Each species grew
at such different rates—St. Augustine fastest,
then bluegrass, bentgrass, and the wan fescue
(which dominated, or rather outlasted
these rivals on a sandy ridge

Noah Warren is the author of  The Destroyer in the Glass,  winner of the Yale Series of Younger Poets. A former Stegner Fellow, he lives in San Francisco and is a pursuing a PhD in English at UC Berkeley. 

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