you’re not real, Bart Simpson,
but still we love you.
After dinner, Andrew sits on the floor and belts
out notes – off key - from well known power ballads
tilting me back to early family parties
and recent business meetings when I could
and did express my tension, truth or beauty, disregarding.
Then his clamorous song stirs up a heavy
chest, my cave of mouth to a vinegar taste
and tears all dammed with clubby fingers
clenched for every time I couldn’t, didn’t
howl because he's singing out, because he can.
glint, hanging after rain;
something, nothing, fruit ahead of winter.
Blackberries shine ; look in wonderment
at a little business maybe concerning, or
not concerning, passers by
in conflict ‘do I - don’t I - want to
pick and eat a multi faceted fruit,
this burst of life as life potential?’
Blackberries will fall; not as victims,
heroically, or even humanly
but now they shine in Autumn as their time and
blackberries turn a little in the wind,
impregnating optic nerves by dancing – no –
such a thought is crazy, silly,
weird, a human fantasy