Self harm

tiny little pinches
tiny little slice
skinny lines of scarlet and
clinking of the ice.  gin and tonic lull me
sloely sing me off to sleep.
bedtime is so cold now

the darkness is so deep.
blades of razor kiss me
on tender open skin
let me know my heart still beats

without the perfume of you

observation

The grass is knee deep

and it is not grass but

some weed called cow something.  I think I’m supposed to

deal with it.  The ivy beds are overgrowing the stairs,

and the ivy beds are self overgrown with some other vine. 

There are three pots by the front door,

two cracked and containing only dirt,

the third holding beige flakes and a stick

that is a dead Japanese Maple.  Welcome.

From where my left cheek is pressed,

from against the warm wood of the deck,

I have a perfect view with my right eye

of where the private investigators must have sat

all those days and nights, peeking into the windows

with night vision goggles and super-cameras,

assiduously taking notes, or

whatever it is they use and do to spy on lovers. 

Decrepit derelict garden.  You’ve done my curb appeal in,

you know.  This is your fault.  Because now,

on my stomach looking down, I can’t up myself

from the dusty, headed and toed by piles of pinecones

and pine needles and probably spiders,  maybe ticks,

an older, uglier, horizontaler, knowinger, Juliette. 

Between blinks I see

the deer ate the Hostas and who cares.  Now the stalks are stubs. 

Fitting.  And apt too:  slices in the driveway host prickly things,

and I could dig them out, probably.  Or I could dump poison.  

It’s not two months and unwanted still invades.  I am lying here. 

Waiting.   For what. The bee on the back of my knee should just

stop walking around there and sting me.  This impatience with indecisiveness,
impatience with decisions.  Maybe if I’d just close my legs

the pain would change. 

He flew away.