whose eyes are a fair, spiky green
I only see on my hands
and knees at spring's initial offerings, how

Thomas Bottle was thinking of all the things he hated: hair down his back when he got a haircut; his Aunt Fern’s kitty litter; ringworm; the loud women in baseball caps who came every summer to paint the ocean below his house; and Jehovah’s Witnesses who came to sell him Awake! and The Watchtower. 

Show the runner coming through the shadows,
  show him falling into a speckled rhythm,
  and then show the full expression of light,