The Picking Ground

Adjacent to the cemetery, where

blackberry blood runs down my fingers,

bushes are bred in perfect rows.


You asked me to sit next to you, so I did.

I held your legs over my lap, traced lines

with my fingers down the undersides of your thighs,

down to your bare feet.


And blue could be black

if I wanted it to be.

And smoke could be somewhere

if I concentrated.


You smelled of blackberries and

distant thunderstorms.


I pulled you close to me on the bed,

held you against my chest,

until we were the only sound in the room.


Then, we ate.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s