One Day on Blackberries

By DS Maolalai

One day on blackberries

the traffic was thicker
this evening especially: November 
has suddenly turned.
things change very slowly.
then they explode; all like 
falling apples, and apples
before then; ripening, bitterness 
peeling to sugar, scratched 
clear by the fingers 
of seasons and endless 

anxiety. and walking the countryside
roads which peel outside
of highways, on outskirts
of cities – and one day on blackberries
you notice more deep blue 
than green. and yesterday streets here 
seemed clear in a straight
run from citywest business park 
into the core of the city. 
the opposite of sweetness
in apples, I guess. and the clocks
turned back recently also;
I sat for an hour, smoking
in a black-shadowed 
room with a steering wheel 
until eyeballs stung 
and my clothes gained a colour
which twisted to colourless 
grey beyond just what's a shadow.
it's 11th november: 
next week I turn 31. 

I look at the street like a tree
and its branches – citywest, inchicore,
stalks stretching onward 
and toward heuston station
and flowering. the city an apple 
grown heavy with cars 
pushing inward like wood pumping juice. 
and around me through windows
there's already some lights
going up on some premature 
christmas trees.