The Summer 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
within the veil of blackberries,
ample at the melting point,

depths of jet ready to slip
the pips with no resistance,
like beads of sweat on eyelashes.

Plucks from stems do not disturb the snake.
Dust is waltzing on a pond's black skin.
In the nick of this noon the quickest

flickering tongue from a snake.
We break the berries phasing past prime.
Within the sleep of juice is germed

the wriggling of the fruit fly worm.