The little memory was of a fruit when not a phone and phones never rang in the hills.Kids would hurt their shins in the hills to pick the season’s blackberries , recently involved from their white moon-flower forebears. The flowers had sprung from milky stems , bleeding not purple but white.But now they are gone and we have purple succulence all over.

The blood was all over us ,making us guilty in pockets. The flowers had tasted stringent but delectable to tiny tongues. Now kids are blood thirsty, their teeth turned rat’s teeth with purple streaks in them.

On the hills the berries would appear,
Time for you kids to bleed your palms.
They were yesterday’s moon-flowers
Their milk spilling like soft moonlight
Lightly sour but fragrance to memory.

Beware, terror thorns bleed for real.
Let it be cold blood in your rat’s teeth,
Not on your pudgy schoolboy fingers
With the telltale homework ink stains.

The sun may slip and fall off the edge
He who had filled all this purple pride.
Hurry to bleed pockets but not shins.


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