I love to go out in late Septemberamong fat, overripe, icy, black blackberriesto eat blackberries for breakfast,the stalks very prickly, a penaltythey earn for knowing the black artof blackberry-making; and as I stand among themlifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berriesfall almost unbidden to my tongue,as words sometimes do, certain peculiar wordslike strengths or squinched,many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps.,which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge wellin the silent, startled, icy, black languageof blackberry-eating in late SeptemberGalway Kinnell
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