If I place the self Or heart or soul or the thing That holds it all inside

In her hands (her, the cause Of this desire in the self, Or heart, or soul, or something, Now fissured with thought),

As one might hand in a sprig Of cold forsythia coming in From a long walk in the dark,

Will she, if not with her unsuspecting eye, At least with her blood's litmus Sense all those rusted points of iron,

Stuck in there, in that organ, That poisoned fruit, that interior thing, From walking through fences Around the trenches of those Past wars.

Note: Another subversive use for a Black Berry; poeticizing in bathroom breaks