You talk
as we pick
rambling blackberries
and the words
that you put out
between us
are a crowd,
a noisy boisterous mob
Dropping below the level of words
I find the quiet below the crowd
and squeeze the black of a berry
finger roll it, and press
the colour of a bruise
against my white skin.
Dorothy Pugin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bruises-2/
