Turf War

In my garden

the orchids           are headless

flowerless.

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The orchids are tediously slow at growing.
The look
                 is not good.

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I’ve this difficulty with loitering on familiar turf
as if waiting for an accumulation of biographies
to descend on me from some unrelated source
beyond my thinking span of years.

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I’ve this difficulty knowing where to put you
what box to squeeze you into
why squeeze you in at all
what purpose justifies what I want to do?

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In my garden

stones         have been trampled into place

by unidentified objects

and scribbled-on.          Some      circle the moon

some turn their humps to the sun
tell stories or pull moss and lichen over their faces.
Some grow fur coats for the winter.

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It’s a fact (well-known to me) my problems are obsessional
like repeatedly washing my hands repeatedly locking doors
or checking to confirm they’re locked or checking the doors
are where they should be or washing my hands or cleaning
the car everyday walking the perimeter of my garden opening
and shutting the letter-box 4 or 5 times – always before lunch
does she love me does she love me not does she love me does she
does she?             One more spin around the garden wash my hands
lock a door unlock a door.         My problems are territorial.

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But where to keep you?
Where to put the brightly-carved container
that’s supposed to fit your head and torso, your knees and toes?

For god's sake let’s walk to the letter-box and back.

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In my garden

I pull out the orchids            which stare at me

for too long.           For them        it’s too late.

It’s so bloody mechanical

this turf rebellion without a cause.

I dig holes to fool the rain.