gone green

Once the lawn's
mown, you can moan and piss
over what's past
til the cows come home,
smoking grass
to explain your cried
-out
eyes, and lie about what
you can laugh about now, but
if anything, it isn't funny what
happened, but how
you can go about
wearing out rounds
you've long since gone
'round, because of her friends -
always showing up at random,
as if in accusation
like a sudden detective: what
have you done with her?

Search me.

Do you have a warrant?

You will find she's all over me
: hints, suggestions,
fingerprints that don't come off,
scraping to get in. I know

she's all over me.
I couldn't get her off if I tried.
She told me, confided
that she did, and oh! how
she lied. And I,
keeping my endless trust
inside,
am all over her
dust, by now. As the grass,
hemmed in and fenced by stained,
bleached limits of once
-implied trust,
exhales the air and grows
and grows
so green and greener
you could get sick in it.

And so you do.

There isn't any sense putting off
what isn't, any more. Nothing
that hasn't been, and gone, and done,

all over

before.