The whirring needle, from the
top of a blackberry bush
finds its way undisturbed into
the cloud of whirring dust
that my body is.
The temptation to push its
subtlety further in, stifled by
sudden – surprise.
A blackberry - juice - tinged cloud
scours on my bronze ring.
(exercise from Robin Behn's "The Practice of Poetry" Good book, you should get it.)
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