You talk <br />as we pick <br />rambling blackberries <br /> <br />and the words <br />that you put out <br />between us <br />are a crowd, <br />a noisy boisterous mob <br /> <br />Dropping below the level of words <br />I find the quiet below the crowd <br /> <br />and squeeze the black of a berry <br />finger roll it, and press <br />the colour of a bruise <br />against my white skin.<br /><br />Dorothy Pugin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bruises-2/
