Watch It Thin

Lately, the lawnmower
has been pushing me
to rape red roses,
lop off limbs, chew
through the raw mob,
and spill green.

Blood-laced adrenaline,
spurting and searching.
The forearms pulse
with the strain of a heart attack,
and slap against
the electric brambles

stinging with the barbs
of natural consequence.
Digging for the perfect
needle-thorn, in hopes
of sewing the dead
back to life.

Frantic hands squirm as
an infected breeze slips
lacquer in my eye. The
elixir of death swims
into the nostril; I
snort it like a finer cocaine.