When the professor explained that
the raspberry was, in part, lost,
that is, meaning ... oh, as he put it:
"The morpheme of 'rasp' is in one sense full,
but we have lost its meaning ... berry,
however, we understand ..."
I think of red
raspberries, fresh in late spring, cream
their tiny sea, as the veranda fills
with the gift of mockingbirds
while I wait for you, that gray bird
doing covers of the quail and the wren.
Fragile as the empty heart
of the raspberry that closes
about it under our tongue ...
while the light, because it is summer,
refuses to leave.