Unnatural Selection

I yanked at the dandelion's neck

and the earth spat back a tooth.

A shard of Phillips’ blue, a wreck

of someone's stomach-aching youth.

The 4 p.m. sun hits the edge,

a jagged, artificial spark.

It’s a sharp and clinical wedge

driven deep into the dark.

It’s too bright for the mud,

this electric, chemical stain.

It doesn't bleed like real blood;

it just sits there, waiting for the rain.