Fall 2006 [Issue No. 10]
From our languor in the grass, time drifted
by counting clouds—all of it somehow propelled
by nothing—we rise to taste fresh fruit:
wild berries warmed by summer’s sun
that when picked from giving branches
soften to compote in our palms.
No one shares with us this succulence;
only plucked bushes reveal that here
we were happy.
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