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Pinelands bushes

Reclusive lowland hearties

Pink blossoms,

Dark cranberries, punches to the tongue

Laying low and heavy in the scratch.

Come men with sticks

Beating old maid fruit from

Chaparral’s maternal clutch

White sands cluttered with rootless exiles

Each berry pitted with a hidden puff of air.

The berry’s latent lightness

Caged greatness waiting to rise

Waiting upon mild craft,

On husbanding attention,

On weight, pressure, moments made.

The men flood the bog

Crash of water,

The broken bob a-twitch

From their momentary sea-bed

Holy Ghost buoyant

Pulled sky tall

Rupturing the wine-dark surface

Winning crisp and happy Barrens wind.

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