Have you ever heard a small town serenade?

The world's an unmown lawn, is a splendid line, and perhaps the only one in this poem which reminds me of the fragments of your poetry that I know. The rest of the poem seems to be an image of an image; perhaps I am mistaken, and perhaps I do not know small towns well. But it feels as though this poem is the vibration of a resonant mode I did not know your mind had. Sympathetically unphilosophical nostalgia carried to the point of song? A fascinating production.