Poem
Mulberries and the Death of the Literary Novel
by Alan Gould •
Torrid noon, I’m high in my mulberry harvest.
So, what is it with this tree? Lower branches, I click
quickly left or right – fingers safebreaker light
on the gorged capsules, and they detach,
drop, thuk and whole into my plastic bucket.
Yet from the tree-peak where the fattest fruit
clusters against the sun, O I must pinch
and wrest until the berries burst like bloodspray.
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