On the hills the berries would appear,
Time for you kids to bleed your palms.
They were yesterday’s moon-flowers
Their milk spilling like soft moonlight
Lightly sour but fragrance to memory.
Beware, terror thorns bleed for real.
Let it be cold blood in your rat’s teeth,
Not on your pudgy schoolboy fingers
With the telltale homework ink stains.
The sun may slip and fall off the edge
He who had filled all this purple pride.
Hurry to bleed pockets but not shins.