behind the lamp posts—the taste of wheat
along a beaten righteous path
lit by carnations white and red
like the hotel bedspread where we once laid:
it's all blueberries for us
as we thought it would be
and i hungry and wanting sugar
let the juices drench my tongue
i can barely keep my eyes open
as i wonder if you will be
alongside cows and goats
while i am left picking berries
like my family did so long ago

it all makes just one poem.

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