cleavermagazine.com
DELTA 29: EVERY LEVEL A LINE, EVERY LINE A FISHERMAN’S NET BAG OF NO LONGERS. by David Koehn • Cleaver Magazine
Wild blackberry bramble all along the edge. Himalaya? Or Cutleaf? Or Pacific? Thimbleberry? Let me try again, what net? We keep eating the fruit because the poison sweetens with age. Another fuckin suicide. Let me try again, I want a jar of fireflies stowed away in my chest But the light resists secrecy, insists on the opposite of the private property Sign on the gate we trespass on our walk to water. The light draws from out there How time-tentacled arms tugged us towards tangled bramble. Slashed denim. Blue t-shirt, ripped. Skin, torn. We ignore requests, “What am I?” and “Do you not understand?” and “I have brought you here.” and “I offer my fruit so consider me in full…”