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
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.