Need Increasing Itself by Rounds

The way Lorene and I went back
For blackberries, the same hill
But hotter, the way I said
Doesn't that haze down there look like snow,
The way she said no.
The way we left the good canes
To the bottom of the hill, the way she climbed
Inside them like before, the way my kettle felt
Hanging on my waist, the way she'd brought two,
The way she kept turning in the same place,
The way the dollar was wet in my blouse, the way
The berries were swollen underneath, the way she pulled
Her hood up, the way her hands were, under the leaves,
The way I could only keep picking by thinking we were dying,
The way she kept talking when the plane went over, the way
She kept turning in the same place, the way the first few
Sounded in the second gallon bucket,
The way I had to toss her bucket over
The same way I gave the ditch a vase of zinnias
Every day, the way I had cut them, the way
The colors pom-pommed, the way their water smelled by evening,
The way I thought they couldn't hurt me, the way my husband
Sounded, sobbing in his sleep, a boy or a little horse getting bigger,
The way I glued the leg on the wooden horse again,
The left hind, the way it had been lying on its side too long,
The way the same place breaks, the way we seem to stop sleeping,
The way thorns work, the way sleep comes.

Kathleen Peirce