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.

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 pond, so does the heat
keep things slow, low, patted down;
yet this dream in noon reveals
the quickest flickering tongue from a snake.

And we break the past-prime berries, to see
within the regnant warmth of juice is germed
the high speed wriggling of a silver worm.

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