Picking Blackberries with a Friend Who Has Been Reading Jacques Lacan
August is dust here. Drought
stuns the road,
but juice gathers in the berries.
We pick them in the hot
slow-motion of midmorning.
Charlie is exclaiming:
for him it is twenty years ago
and raspberries and Vermont.
We have stopped talking
about L'Histoire de la verite,
about subject and object
and the mediation of desire.
Our ears are stoppered
in the bee-hum. And Charlie,
laughing wonderfully,
beard stained purple
by the word juice,
goes to get a bigger pot.
