Monday, November 30, 2015

When Summer Grew Still

A snake floats near in the green thorns,
slack ropes amassed and skirting each thorn
as though in lounge-grass and not in thorns;

like a drinking rock, sponges noon,
back of drooping blackberries
ample at the melting point, opaque,
their depths of jet ready to slip
the vines with no resistance.

Unlifting blue has the thicket slaked
in a voiceless stasis of unsealing joints.
Like eyelash-perching beads of sweat,
no pluck from stem disturbs the snake
bundled in the woof of thorns.

As an ochre dust waltzes in sleep
on a deep black pond, a somnolent sheet,
intimates a kettled wetness underneath,
so does the noon in its plateaued heat
reveal a hovering lump of snake.

We break the prime-past berries, and see
within the regnant warmth of juice is germed
wriggling high speed, a sliver - a silver worm.

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