Gathering Wild Berries

The brombeern stain that now

nut-brown will neither wash

nor wash away,

the Hessish humors mulling

with the huckleberry wine—

crimson on crimson

on passion to rust, red

the keening flow upon the ground—

whether of the vein or of the vine

the dye is set, the serum dry.

Pricking finger, wrist,

bloody juices, lick

the salt sweet wound

and feel the gritty blossom

burr across your tongue,

hold the bleeding treasure

fast, regain the sticky grip

in pain, squeeze the living

paint onto the page,

and press the scarlet ink to fit

the meaning of its seed.