Unpicking the print-eyed
Unpicking the print-eyed berries from her hair
in a hollow where the spiders probe the moss:
watch her dog-face discreetly, forbidden nymph
and fungi angel of the spirit forests.
There's no critical moment; eyes averted,
mauve, like a night-dress, she's unaware
of my groping. Sounding her voices in
the forest, she picks berries from the unkempt
bushes and shrubs, filling her skirts with
and washing her flank with green-stained dew,
on the edge of mossy churchyards, purple stained
by nightfall. No critical moment, I move
closer, her skirts are shadows lifted, mauve
and stained by the sky, green stained legs stretch
for print-eyed berries in the shadow raising
night. Dog-faced she moans in the churchyard,
print-eyed berries fall from her full skirts
like shadows in the forest, reaching the roots
of lice pocked-trees, falling into water pots
within the trunk, mossed and full of sticky oils.
Purple tinted hair, she gathers berries, her
touch covering with a shadow consciousness;
her forest is stupified, levelled to a
deliberate throbbing and breath suspended.
Jowls stained by print-eyed berries, she's
skirts held to her breast, her green calves are drained black;
like berries in preservative, she's pulped black;
berries picked to be picked in an unknown wood.