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55 Picking Blackberries Noon. Hottest day turning into hazed cloister. I eat fruit gone too far wild for love’s table: deep gone into ripening’s doze, lopsided, grown odd-bodied, estranged, but so sweet, lateness broken on the tongue. Where is that perfected body I keep reaching under leaf and thorn to pick? He dreams on, asail before the bedroom’s machined breeze. I’m still eating, finding no berry fine enough to feed him. ...

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