I want to know


I love the sweet, broken ones

the sun
selects and burns away
of the aggregate fruit

I cannot throw away
the last blackberry,
hold it, bleeding
in my palm.
ease away
the ruined drupelets.
the raw remains
in my mouth

as if

my tongue
could heal a fruit of nature

loving, this way,
one isolated berry
could revive its far-gone cells

the renewal
of a berry
could take me home again
and make it good
this time.

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