Out damned spot
You stay on my fingertips,
Fingertips stained with the blood of blackberries
In the space under my fingernails
A smell sweet but faded
Your sharp juice doesn’t leave my tongue
Even though wafer after wafer I consume
I squeeze your pulp like a fruit
Trying to dry you out, will you dry out?
In your thorns I am enveloped
Just as in your nectar, I drown.
And when goes hence?
On beds of liverwort and lichen
Thistle clambers under a rowan
Lady Althaea sings a winter song
A revelry in frost and silver
Clavicle taut under ghostly skin
A dagger plunged in frozen ground
What’s to be done?
The soothsayer opens his palms
For one who suffers the journey of no return