I've always said I have your hands

You asked me to drive you,
One out- of -the- blue afternoon.

We wandered among the weeds
and grass grown too long,
past the fresh brown earth
and fading hot house flowers.

We had to count the rows
to find the place.

You tore at the couch grass with your bare hands,
Only your face seemed to have protection.

And I saw myself, on my knees,
Somewhere in the future,
Tearing at the past
where the grass has grown,
too long.