A Plot Against the Robots
—after Wallace Stevens
When I hear their metal boots
clacking through the garden,
trampling down the tulips,
I will dance by this patch of violets;
I will call down hours of rain.
Their rusty knees should halt them.
I will set the herbs ablaze—
the lemon thyme, the chocolate mint,
the blooming pineapple sage.
I will hand them fistfuls of lavender;
they will not know what to say.
I will play them a tune
on my broken harmonica;
I will write them the words for a song.
If only one would start to hum
like the sweet, green legs of crickets,
even you and even I
would begin to come undone.