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.

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