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Picking Blackberries with a Friend Who Has Been Reading Jacques Lacan

August is dust here. Drought

stuns the road,

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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

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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.

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