The Plain of Existence is Narrow Indeed

In the garden of semi-rotten fruit,
In the plot of the overripe melons,
I’ve forgotten the motivation for keeping
The rows free of weeds, for keeping
The worms from gorging themselves.
They have grown fatter than I,
They don’t even hide when I wander by,
They whistle and wear straw boaters
And take their best girls to barn dances
In fancy new cars with cucumber wheels.

Dear garden full of suckers and leaches,
You are full of snakes and snails and aphids,
The lawn is creeping into your heart,
The trees are dropping seeds into your beds,
The sky is falling on your shoots and tendrils,
And I am your attendant and master.
I have a map in my head diagramming
What grows where, staging the corn to wave.
I have been in bed with the sheets over my head.
In my fever, with my swelling brain

And aching limbs, I wandered like the undead
Moaning and stumbling, my arms feeling the air,
Without a coat because it’s certainly winter,
Without a flashlight in the midnight hush,
And you were killed off by the snow
That seemed made of incinerator ash
That seemed to fly at me with malice
And threaten my thoughts, bully my body,
Reach its hands over my feet and bedevil
My blood, which was hiding in my heart.

I’ve been hoeing for a lifetime, turning
And examining the same soil over and over,
And I’ve found myself hungry for anything
That can be beaten from the garden
With the blackjack others have called a seed.