Mike Bell/ September 13, 2021/ www.mikebellpoems.com/ 0 comments

I trip on hid-trip-hazard
routes [as if] – instead I
lie low underground – six

feet deep in mulch – we
once dog-walked stony
paths of criss-crossings

[maps – all Strava’d-by-
Lycra’d] – by such ways
desires bled – picked at

& pickings – rules led us
out – wood-walkers – to
scratching-at-fruits – as

high blackberries fell &
until we fell – ripe-guts –
bare brambles – then a

bearing to a bedroom
[steps aware of falling
& we pulled until bare] –

my dog bawled as if it
had been left behind –
We rolled on pickings

& skin fingerings – slip
of limbs in rubbings &
grip – we held – stilled

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