Further Beneath Blueberries

What we consider is a cultured mess.
Blueberries, a green hill.
Instantaneous: a slow picking day.

Here: our exchanged blued fingers, our
knees rubbed light green and knotted,
our shoes morning damp.

Here: what exchange was made for the heat
of this subway, the supplanted rows of armpits
holding oily bars, the grab the stink the station has.

A total one, like chlorophyll grabs and squeezes nerves of
water, as if it’s thick blood makes an etching. Like blueberry
juice, thicker than the air from hills but lighter than warm, summer

water. How the stink pallets the arms and necks,
paints the loose skin in a gelatinous unconformity—
consider the blueberries.

The darkening meat an idle thing, waiting to pop,
waiting to shred or roll, like the droplets under the tracks
awaiting evaporation. The heavy afternoon thunder, the sprinkling,

the enveloping mist. The crowds of people, the rattling as it passes
and the way the breaks squeal violently. The violence of leaves akimbo
in the afternoon wind, uncovered and vulnerable in masses.

The sun --rounded and yellowed as the train icon itself—weary, it’s
a quitter this season, down too early, never on time.
Consider the blueberries, the harvest,

the very best we can be at any given time. Consider the slow day,
and how the finish of it is down, laying, sloped, restlessly asleep.
In other words, achieving a means of beneath.