Green brambles bake in
the white August sun; berries
boil along the vines.
Nettles, thorns threaten
all passers-by but cannot
disguise their sweet prize.
I defy the sharp warnings,
red blood on my hands,
black juice on my tongue.
Green brambles bake in
the white August sun; berries
boil along the vines.
Nettles, thorns threaten
all passers-by but cannot
disguise their sweet prize.
I defy the sharp warnings,
red blood on my hands,
black juice on my tongue.