The backyard is wild as haggards.

We're ass-deep

in what we have neglected.

It's always this way,

here in the Bluff City.

We act as if we are as alive

as the rest of humanity,

only to be disappointed when

we don't measure up.

I wade out into the weeds,

kicking a once-red

croquet ball, finding the hose

where we abandoned it,

that day the heat drove us back

into the house like

whipped curs.

I stand there like Ozymandias,

feel the creepers

cover my sneakers, the hairs

on my shins twining

with greenery. Soon, it will take

me over, and I'll lie

down, unrepentant, a sinner to

the end, the kind of man

nature was not made for, the kind

who only breathes because he has to.