Putting Iron vs. Blackberry Tangle

Tear me up in the guts
Tear me up in the heart
Street
Ditch
Row of rural mailboxes,
Toppling.
It tears me up.
Rips tiny holes in my organs,
That blackberry bramble,
Sprawling 
Catching my pantlegs, my bootlaces
I beat them down 
Fend them off
Swinging with my putting iron, sword-like.
It tears me up to see where I fought back the blackberry bushes for her.
It tears me up to see it now.
She, picking for freezing and pie-making.
Me, in large untied leather boots, swinging my guts out.
Taking it all out on the green thorny blackberries.
Smashing them back
Beating them down
Swinging my putter-sword to destroy them like the small creeps they are.
Tears my guts, my blood, my bones,
The gravel driveway
Our crappy shared carport
That blue-grey duplex,
Can't think away from it.
Beating them down,
Sprawling
Never
Always
In her absence,
It tears me up in my head.
Where once she was the only insurgence of growth,
The creeps have taken hold.