Pick Your Own
As day ripens into dark
and its sweetness slides into soft nodes,
so blackberries bend toward this basket
contorting through thorns, plucking at
the I of the bruisest little apples
playing at Black Bear in his namesake bush,
staining his coat with juice and blood. Gorging on
clusters of fairies’ grapes: yesterday’s sun and last
week’s rain vacation on separate but neighboring islands
inside my mouth
those trails we cut that went nowhere: now they
reach the summit. The forearm scars forgotten,
cradling a brimful bowl. Will this netting fool
the birds? Feels like we’re fishing for treasure. Ok,
start whipping the cream.