Aug 122011
 
In rubbers on the wet
grass carelessly
soaked dungarees

we shove through the
heavy bushes
for blackberries

--how under heaven
do they grow 
gravid and ripe?

What fills the cells full
of some inner 
wolfish night

with a vintage juice?
What grips
our bones and stretches them

long with a bitterness we
can no longer
hide from our wives?

Perhaps
it is our old
friend Sun

a cloud as if
on cue
discloses

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