Fruit among the thorns and poison is the fruit
keeps me in the brambles' digging loops,
sapping strength into these vines, irresolute,
eating fruit among the thorns and poison
is the fruit. Winged black things rain down and peck my head
and gobs of flesh fall down like fruit which they reject
and will not eat, but encircle round and dig their beaks
like picks into my skin, until their fallow reek
comes sailing slow into my skull. Is spring here yet,
they caw and swarm in greater hordes, and peck and peck.
The blood is draining from my head and rootless
are my feet; my arms grow looping bramble thorns;
the blood's last stoppers are removed and rivers flush
out all red onto the ground, grow cold and waste away;
the thankless sleet is falling fast - is spring here yet.
Faint and dizzy reels my bleeding head, each beak
a bullet, shoots and plucks out flesh and blood and wings
away with mad jeering speech; thorns are here my feast.
Sapped strength and asphalt roads and empty tasteless fruit;
everything is lacking vigour; one thraldom of sickliness
grows the globe. Crows and poison fruit. Is spring here yet.